Direct Opposition
by IrrelevantLogic
Summary: When Mr Darcy marries his one true love, Lizzy Bennet, it's the perfect happy ending-but he never told her what it cost to find Wickham (or whom he has to pay). Then the evil queen casts a dark curse to tear apart all loves. Twenty eight years later in Maine, a girl named Austen finds herself attracted to two different men; her first impressions may or may not be reliable.
1. Chapter 1: Whatever You Require

**Author's Note: So, currently I am obsessed with two men: Fitzwilliam Darcy and Rumplestiltskin/Mr Gold. The lovely thing about Once upon a Time is that any and all fiction is fair game (theoretically), soooo...here you are: a crossover. Enjoy. Reviews would be awesome; constructive criticism, also awesome.**

**P.S. "Rumplestiltskin" _is_ right (as opposed to "Rumpelstiltskin"); it's the name on his dagger.**

* * *

"You've spent a lot of time lookin' for me, dearie."

Darcy winced. The voice sounded cheerful, even friendly, but the high pitch and the mocking lilt sent chills up and down his spine.

He turned. Perched high on the wall about ten feet away sat a little man in a cape, black lizard skin waistcoat, red silk shirt, knee high lace-up boots, and leather breeches. He was swinging his legs. His skin sparkled in the dim light, but the shine had nothing friendly or comforting about it—it reminded Darcy of a reptile's scales, all grey and slimy. His half-ingratiating, half-jeering grin revealed two rows of crooked and stained teeth; the eyes he turned on Darcy glittered maliciously; the fingers he pressed together had sharp nails, black to the roots.

Darcy took a step back and cleared his throat. "I have, yes. I have need of your assistance."

"Of course, of course!" spat the other. He gathered his long cape up in one arm and hopped down from the wall, landing as soft as a cat. "No one comes to me unless they want something!"

"I should imagine that to be true," Darcy said. "If you are indeed who I have been looking for…"

The grin reappeared, and the little man swept an elegant bow. "Rumplestiltskin, at your service. And you must be young Fitzwilliam Darcy! A sincere pleasure, I assure you!"

Rumplestiltskin barely came up to Darcy's shoulder, and yet the flamboyantly dressed creature emanated an aura of power and primal terror, like a particularly loathsome crocodile or shark. He smelled of burning wood, wet earth, and blood—the smell of magic.

"Now that we've been introduced, dearie," he said, "Let's get to the point. What is it you want?"

Darcy squared his shoulders and forced himself to look straight into the glimmering, protruding eyes. "I've been searching for someone for months, and I'm no closer than I ever was."

"The name of this…person?"

"George Wickham, a lieutenant in Colonel Forster's regiment, which is currently encamped at Brighton. He's eloped with a young woman named Lydia Bennet. I need to find them. I suspect them to be in London, but have no reasonable method of discovering them. Can you help me?"

"Of course I _can_; the question is, what are you willing to pay for such a service?"

"Whatever you require."

"Whatever I require, dearie? Are you sure?"

"What do you want?"

Rumplestiltskin emitted something between a giggle and a shriek.


	2. Chapter 2: The Wedding

The wedding guests flung the door open and a gust of wind hit Elizabeth full in the face. She caught her breath and then laughed; while they were in church, the first snow of winter had fallen, just enough to turn the ground and the trees white. The almost magical transformation set her breathless, and at the same time worried her; she turned a concerned eye on her thin wedding slippers.

Her husband, watching her with adoring care, saw her concern and its cause. In a moment a possible solution presented itself. He lifted her into his arms and her feet swung off the ground; the long train of her dress swept over his arm and just brushed the top of the snow. Elizabeth gasped at this uncustomary gallantry, but her pleasure far outweighed her surprise and she secured her arms around his neck with alarmed delight.

Darcy kept his grip on her until the carriage door had been opened, whence he deposited her and climbed in after. Elizabeth leaned out the window to wave goodbye to Jane and Bingley and the rejoicing throng at large. Darcy merely smiled as they passed any of his acquaintance; his eyes were for the woman all in white, like an angelic snow queen, with her jet hair brushing against her cheek and her glowing dark eyes.

When they passed through the gates of Longbourne, she collapsed back into the carriage against the seats, her face flushed with the cold and with excitement.

"I suppose you're very glad that's all over," she teased.

"Rather. Now I have you to myself."

"Away from my mother and Mr. Collins, of course you mean. I can't say I blame you."

"I am glad we could escape their interminable congratulations."

"And I. I do not anticipate having too little of their congratulations or company in future, and on this day it is infinitely preferable to be entirely without."

"Infinitely. Even the best company, at this moment, would scarcely be tolerable."

"There may come a time, you know, when it is again tolerable and even desirable."

"You know I do not care for company, Elizabeth."

"Indeed I do! But you would not wish to spend all of your time with me, when it could be spent with superior people and superior minds?"

"There is no one who is your superior, my beautiful bride!"

_A sudden rush of love and warmth went to his head. He took her hand and pressed it fervently to his lips, trying to express everything that she meant to him…_

Darcy's face took on a peculiar expression all of a sudden. He let her hand go with a sort of choke and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What is it, dear?" Elizabeth asked. When he didn't respond, she gently brushed a little of his curly hair out of his eyes. "Are you well?"

_There was a deal of concern in that voice, and her cool fingers soothed his flushed face beautifully. It was only a little thing, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Probably thoughtless. But her thoughtlessness, like her thoughts, centred on him. Even he could feel how her new husband had filled every layer and every hidden corner of her mind and heart._

"Quite well, I thank you. Pardon me. I fear it must be all of this ceremony and excitement. I shall be quite myself presently." He shook himself and smiled at her. "There, now I am better. We shall spend the night in Northampton, as we cannot possibly reach Pemberley today."

"Of course we shall. The night! And what a thought _that_ is, to be sure. I cannot…why, Mr. Darcy, I am sure you are not well! Look at you, there is no colour in your face at all!" She turned his face and looked deep into his eyes. "Now, you know this is no time to begin to doubt the wisdom of this venture!"

"Doubt it! I!" Shaking his head, "I have never been as sure of anything as I am of you, my dearest! After all of this, can you think that I doubt myself _here_?" Darcy laced his fingers through her curls. His eyes traversed her face, little and brown and pixyish and (to him) nothing less than perfect, from the long black eyelashes to the curve of the lips that smiled impishly at his gaze. Her lips…

He bent his head and just touched them with his own: timid, experimental, his heart racing. A ceremonial kiss before a hundred people…didn't count, somehow. This was real.

_This was real._

Her arms went around his neck, and for a few moments the blood pounding through his head made him forget everything except the little woman who was now his wife.


	3. Chapter 3: Garret

Rumplestiltskin stood in his garret, next to his table.

His table was scattered all over with _things_. Anyone who wished to discover the secret to his power…well, they wouldn't find it here, or anywhere, really. But one who wished to know the man for who he was, or who he thought he was, would find enough here to begin the exploration of his depths.

Crystal balls, amulets, and odd phials had been tossed next to knives, brushes, and tools.

Paper covered one whole half of the table—mostly scrolls; blank scrolls, scrolls full of strange words, scrolls full of spells, scrolls full of nothing but names.

On one corner a single red rose, encased in blue light, rested on top of a beautiful gilt mirror.

A circle had been drawn in chalk in one clear area; inside it there was a leathern ball, a candle, a short woollen cloak, a severed human hand, and a crude charcoal sketch of a young man with serious eyes.

Some of the things on the table glowed; some of the things moved or beat strangely; some of them evaded sight.

Everything was covered in straw.

The objects lay strewn probably as they had fallen: things buried according to recent use. He had the habit of picking up a thing when he needed it and dropping it back anywhere when he finished. Just now he held and stared at a lady's fan.

It was rather old, but attractive. The silk leaf depicted a simple winter scene: a snowy tree, a horse-drawn carriage with people in it, a ribbon of a river in the distance. You could "see light" through the fan's sticks. In all it was quaint, but serviceable—nothing about such a pretty trinket merited Rumplestiltskin's present death glare. (Occasionally the glare broke, and an expression of dark satisfaction replaced it.)

Indeed, to the casual eye it was nothing more than an ordinary fan…unless you looked at it closely. If you did, it got more and more alive until you could swear it moved; you could swear that the horse drew the carriage and the people talked and gestured…And then you would shake your head and say no, of course that couldn't be; it wasn't even terribly lifelike, was it? Just a picture of a carriage driving next to a river…

It's said that observation changes the observed. Rumplestiltskin had always been very _good_ at observation.


	4. Chapter 4: Can't Sleep

"Darcy?"

He turned from his place at the window, where he fancied he could see in the distance the gentle hills of Derbyshire. Elizabeth half sat up among the bedclothes, looking at him through blurred eyes. Her hair tumbled down, a mass of shining black curls; the loose night gown dropped off her shoulders and displayed two brown arms. A fair woman was reckoned beautiful, but this dark girl with the fascinating eyes sent his heart into his throat.

Elizabeth wrapped herself in a shawl, climbed out of bed, and crossed the room to where he stood looking out of the window. "It's fearfully cold here," she said. She lifted her arms to put around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. "Of all the warm places in this room, why do you choose to stand here?"

"I've often found that I think more clearly in the cold than in the heat."

"That's why you wished to marry me in the winter—to be sure you were thinking clearly? But then, of course, you proposed in the spring."

"If you will remember, the day was particularly cold."

"Well, and what should you have to think about just now?"

_As he brushed his fingers against her back, he felt the pulse of her flesh beneath the nightdress; the pulse sped noticeably under his touch._

_Intriguing…_

"I often find myself analysing new experiences and emotions. I like to understand things."

"Yes, dear, but it's nearly four in the morning and we have the rest of the way to travel in only a few hours. Besides, it's oddly comforting to have you near me when I sleep. I thought it would be strange, but it's lovely. You don't snore a bit, you know."

He smiled slightly. "You don't know that; I haven't slept tonight."

She kissed him on the chin. "Well, I should like to find out as soon as may be, so come back and try to sleep."

_It really was oddly comforting. He had expected to feel invaded, or at least unsettled, with another lying next to him. But the warm little body so close to his and the sound of gentle breath made him feel somehow safe, as though she'd always been there. It felt comfortable, natural, and beautiful._

Elizabeth tucked the bedclothes in around him and smoothed his hair, that little laugh dancing in her eyes and around the corners of her lips. "Shall I sing for you? You always admired my singing, didn't you?"

"What a mother you'll be!"

"I daresay I'll be a very indulgent mother, who lets her children do just as they like. You'll have to provide the discipline, dearest. Now, then; what shall I sing?"

"Your bare feet must be cold, Elizabeth. Lie down and then you may sing what you like."

She did. Nestling close in his arms, she began to hum what he recognised as the first song he'd ever heard her sing, months ago; a song that always afterward reminded him of her, though he'd often wished it did not. In her voice, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, he just caught the sweet tone peculiar to contentment.

He drifted off to sleep for the first time in two days.


	5. Chapter 5: Singing

Singing.

He'd been hearing the singing again.

When she cleaned the castle, she used to sing. There had been one song in particular. He'd never heard the words, or much of the melody, because until near the end she'd been too frightened to sing when in his actual presence. But he remembered one line.

_Da_dee da, dee_da_, da, da, da, _da_dee da dee_da…_

That one little line of music came into his head at the oddest moments, and then it seemed like he'd never be able to get it out again.

_Da_dee da, dee_da_…

He rarely slept; it took too much time and seemed a pointless waste of time that could be turned to more useful purposes. When he did, however, he would dream about that line of music. He would wake up with it ringing in his ears. Sometimes he could swear he heard it, and he would tear madly through the Dark Castle looking for _her_, believing the impossible for a few frenzied moments: that she had come back, that it had all been a dream and that she was still there, still singing…

He dropped the fan as if it had suddenly become too hot to hold. The song swam in front of his eyes, all around, bouncing off the walls, reverberating, echoing back and forth.

Da, da, da, _da_dee da, dee_da._

"Stop!" He crushed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the sound. "Shut up, shut up, shut the _hell_ up!"

Slowly, painfully, it faded away until only the ringing silence of emptiness and darkness remained. He opened his eyes again, took in a few deep breaths and looked at the fan, with its picture of a snowy inn and snow-covered pine trees. His hand trembled over it for a moment, but dropped.

"My agreements are always honoured," he muttered.


	6. Chapter 6: Mutual Worry

"Dear man, I'm troubled."

Darcy looked up from where he sat writing business letters. He smiled in spite of himself. When he saw Mrs Darcy a smile tended to appear spontaneously on his face. They'd been married more than a month, and he still couldn't help it.

"It must be terribly serious to trouble _you_, Elizabeth."

"It is; terribly. Dearest, every man that I have ever seen married puts on weight in the first month of his marriage. I had decided that it was something to do with being happier than heretofore. But you have _lost_ weight, and not only that, but you look a great deal paler than you did a month ago. Are you unhappy?"

He gazed at her stupidly for a moment, wondering if anyone loved by that woman _could_ be unhappy. Then he collected himself. "No, Elizabeth, I'm not; I've simply been…"

"Busy? Ill? Tired? Under the weather? Yes, I know. But none of that is an excuse for missing your dinner."

"Dinner?"

She smiled. "As I suspected. The bell rang twenty minutes ago and Georgiana and I have been waiting for you. I thought you must be out-of-doors, but here I find you sitting here in plain earshot of the bell, writing letters as calmly as you please."

"Forgive me, I…"

"Well, never mind. Come on." She took his hand and bent over to kiss his forehead. "And, darling, you know that I trust you to tell me if anything is…if you're unhappy or unwell for any reason, conjugal or otherwise."

"I assure you, I am perfectly well. Please don't worry about me."

_This wasn't fooling her. She knew there was something wrong, and she kept darting half-amused, half-puzzled glances at him as they walked to the dining room, though she chattered lightly on comfortable topics. He'd always known he would have to tell her, but he hoped it would be over first._

_He worried about her all the time. When she wasn't with him, he worried about wild animals, deep holes, drowning, falling rocks, kidnapping, getting lost. When she was with him, he worried that she was cold, hot, hungry, thirsty, uncomfortable, discontent. If she looked pale, he worried about faintness; if she blushed, he worried about fever. He supposed it wasn't fair to expect her not to worry about him in the same way._


	7. Chapter 7: Soon I'll Wake Up

Hundreds of acres. Thank _God_, she had hundreds and hundreds of acres. He'd never find her. She broke into a run through the forest, dodging trees and tripping over roots in the darkness.

Those eyes…

Her mouth filled with bile and she began to sob desperately, even as she tried to gasp in air. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, but she had to keep going. She had to keep going. She would make it as far as that waterfall; he didn't know about the waterfall, for all it was his land. Elizabeth had promised to show it to him, but she hadn't, not yet. She would go there; it was only a mile or so away from the house.

She'd never run a full mile before, but she managed it somehow. In about ten minutes, she came to the clearing with the chuckling waterfall and collapsed, alternately panting and choking.

What had happened to him? It wasn't him. Something was wrong. Something terrifying. She kept seeing those horrible shimmering eyes with the wicked gleam in them like a shark, or a crocodile. His hands and his lips…

She shivered. "This must be a dream," she said. "It's just like those nightmares. Soon I'll wake up. Soon I'll wake up."

How long she sat there trembling and weeping, the cold air penetrating her robe and her thin slippers, she didn't know. She kept trying to think, to understand. Her first impulse had been to run, to get as far away from whatever he was as possible. Maybe she shouldn't have run so fast; maybe there was some explanation.

It just all seemed so horrible. Just like all those dreams she'd been having where she would wake up in the middle of the night screaming because Darcy had turned into some kind of a vicious beast. He was always right there, though; he would reach out and take her in his arms and hold her. He never said much; he always had had a hard time saying what he meant. But he understood that holding on to her helped. Feeling the thud of his pulse against her skin meant that he was alive, well, and clinging to her; that was all she needed.

But now…there hadn't been a heartbeat, just cold hands and colder lips and a grip like death. She didn't fear him for those things at first; she only felt a vague excitement. He was different tonight: more intense, less thoughtful. Even his voice, husky and rushed, didn't frighten her. Nothing did until he opened his eyes all the way and she saw she scarcely knew what.

Darcy had brown eyes: lovely brown eyes, with curly lashes all around. This thing…the lashes were there, but the eyes had dilated, iris, pupil, and all. A horribly silvery grey colour, they stared and protruded and glinted with malice and something she couldn't define.

When she started back, he grabbed at her like a predator grabs at prey. Then she began to run; he didn't run after her, but she heard a hissing scream.

She'd never been so afraid.


	8. Chapter 8: So Little Time Left

_Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma emma Emma eMMa Emma Emma Emma Emma EmMa emmaEmma EmmaEmma EMMAemma emma EMMA emma Emma_

_EmmaEMMAEMM EMMAEMMA Emma_

_ Emma Emma EmmaEmma Emma _

_emma emma E mmaEmmaEm maEm ma emma e mMa E m m A_

_emmaEMMA_

_ EMMa Emma Emma emmAemma emma Emma EMMA EMMAEMMA emmaemmaemmaemmaemmaemmaemma emmaemmaemmaemmaemmaemmaemma emmaemma_

Rumplestiltskin scribbled frantically, his eyes dilating and contracting, dilating and contracting while strange lights glittered and danced in them.

So close. So close.

_Emma Emma EmmaemmaEmma_

This was more important, and there wasn't much time left. He could feel the death of the old man, just as he could feel all of the deaths he had inflicted, and if the old man was dead the magic would come soon. Regina wasn't the type to wait around when she had what he needed. She never could learn how to be patient…

_EmmaEmma emm_

Finally, the pen scratched and nothing but an indent appeared on the page. For good measure, Rumplestiltskin impressed the name three or four more times; when that was done he threw the quill away, rolled up the scroll, and hid it away carefully. Then he crouched to the ground and drew an angle in the ground with his finger. He connected the two endpoints of the angle with an arc—the resulting shape resembled a lady's fan, however faintly. Inside half of it, he sketched out the figure of a nymph next to a cascading waterfall; in the other half, a man standing at a window. The drawing seemed crude until you looked at it hard.

"So little time left," he muttered.

Remembering _here_ was painful enough. He had to forget before he got _there_, where it would be intolerable.

His hand hovered over the nymph.


	9. Chapter 9: The Curse

As the fire blazed, the purple smoke rose and poured out over the land. Wind whipped at her hair; the air filled with the smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh and the darkest magic.

The darkest venom of her soul poured into this curse. Her mother was gone, the king was gone, Rumplestiltskin was left powerless, and now everything else would be under her control. She would finally, _finally_ have her revenge, and how sweet it would be! That little princess, with her forgiveness and her oh-so-innocent eyes and her "Prince Charming", would live forever the way Regina had lived these past twenty years, knowing that same pain.

And everyone else…those undeserving, simpering wretches who thought they were so high and mighty and righteous. Stupid Cinderella's happy ending destroyed. Maleficent trapped in that hideous form she used to be so fond of. Those little blue-eyed children separated forever from their beloved father. The proud rich man and his bright wife would be kept apart, hating each other, forever incomplete, with no happy ending to their boring romance.

The infuriating cricket, too, and the pathetic old woodcarver with his fake son; the sparkly, happy fairies who never would learn that all magic, _all magic_, comes at a price, and that the only real difference between "good" and "bad" was how far you were willing to go; that doctor who failed so miserably; the hat-jumper so desperately devoted to that little snip of a girl.

She had triumphed over _all_ of them.

The dwarfs on the turrets of the castle saw the distant smoke and sounded the alarm. Cinderella, who sat in her husband's chair, trying to deal with problems the way he would have, saw it rolling over the hills and rose to her feet. Rumplestiltskin, his eyes enormous and his teeth gnashing together, glared at the diagram he'd drawn. Elizabeth smelled it before she saw it, but then it came through the trees. She parted her lips to call for D…


	10. Chapter 10: Who Am I?

**Author's Note: I didn't realise when I first wrote this that Rumple didn't remember who he was until Emma came to town. I might change it later; I couldn't decide. For now, I'm just leaving it. -IrrLog**

* * *

Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes. Bright sunlight poured in through the window and made him blink twice. Then he sat up and looked around his room.

All the wood was cedar, the sheets silk. An expensive looking robe hung over the bedpost. The sun came in through the window in several different colours, because the glass panes were tinted. All fine so far, he thought. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. That's where the trouble started: the second both feet hit the floor, his right leg collapsed under his full weight. He slumped to the ground.

His old limp. The shinbone he'd shattered with a mallet, now coming back to haunt him. But this time, he realised, not a mere oaken staff supported him, oh no: he saw the sleek gold-topped cane leaning against the bureau and grabbed it. It fitted comfortably and naturally, as if he'd been using it all his life.

"Now, then," he said out loud, "Who am I?"

He closed his eyes briefly and parted the heavy curtain he had thrown over his mind to peer at the new information deposited there.

_Robert Charles Gold. I'm forty five; I've lived in Storybrooke as long as I can remember._

Gold. Gold topped cane. Gold tooth, he realised, running his tongue over his incisors. Golden figurines lined up on the shelf. Regina thought she was awfully clever, didn't she?

_I collect oddities, but particularly golden statuettes. I'm a pawnbroker and antiquities dealer, with a shop on Main Street. I also own most of the real estate and practically all of the land around this charming little town. I have a sizable sum in my bank account and invested in several steady ventures._

Satisfied nod.

_I'm a licensed lawyer, although_ (of course) _I don't have very clear memories of going to law school._

The newly-christened Mr Gold put on his robe, tied the sash around his waist, and strode toward the door, leaning on the elegant cane. Time to explore his new house. Until he could find his way around it and around these peculiar gadgets he saw, it would be better to keep the curtain up, but he wanted to drop it as soon as possible or he might begin however slightly to believe it.

_Da_dee da, dee_da_, da, da, da…

He stumbled and nearly lost his balance. No. No, that couldn't be.

_Her song. The cup. The ladder. Her blue eyes; her dimples, her warmth, her lips her arms the intonation of her voice the knowledge that he was wanted and loved and oh gods no oh gods oh gods_ NO!

He swore through his teeth. He swore and he cursed and he beat the door with his cane and with his bare fists.

Rumplestiltskin still remembered, and now he always would.


	11. Chapter 11: The Clock

"I'd…like a room?" It wasn't a statement of fact, but an inquiry; an inquiry that would change thousands of lives forever.

"Really?" The old woman stared at her for a second before collecting herself. "Would you like a forest view, or a square view?" she asked, bustling behind the counter and beaming all over her round wrinkled face. "Normally there's an upgrade fee for the square but as rent is due I'll waive it."

"Square's fine." The visitor looked rather amused.

The old woman got out an old ledger and plopped it down on the desk, sending a cloud of smoke up into the air. "Now…what's the name?" she enquired, pen poised over the lined page.

"Swan. Emma Swan."

"Emma!"

Emma turned, startled by a man's voice behind her. By the door stood a medium-short man in a checked shirt and tie. Though he pronounced her name with familiarity, he was a complete stranger to her; the cut of his suit and the ring on his finger pronounced him to be a gentleman of some means, and she didn't tend to associate with people who could pay their own way out of jail. "What a lovely name," he said.

"Thanks," said the bearer, smiling slightly. The gentleman smiled back, his expression friendly but also somehow unnerving.

Granny pulled out a roll of bills tied with a rubber band and thrust it toward him. "It's all here," she informed him.

"Yes, yes, of course it is, dear; thank you." He pocketed the money and his eyes returned to the visitor, dwelling on her face as if committing it to memory. "You enjoy your stay…Emma." _Emma emmaEmma_ _EMMA_

He nodded to the three ladies and left the inn, leaning heavily on a gold-topped cane. No one saw the grin of satisfaction that spread over his face when the door closed behind him; even Ruby, who looked out after him in fearful admiration, saw only his back.

"Who's that?" Emma asked Granny, wondering why he seemed to know her.

Ruby said, "Mr Gold. He owns this place."

"The inn?"

"No. The town." After a brief surprised silence, Granny went on, "So, how long will you be with us?"

"A week. Just a week."

"Great." The elderly woman handed her an old-fashioned room key with a swan on it. "Welcome to Storybrooke," she said.

As Emma accepted it, the gears of a clock that had stood still in the town square for twenty-eight long, stationary years began to grind, moan, and turn. After huffing and puffing for sixty seconds the minute hand ticked, just once, from 8:15 to 8:16. Nothing else happened for a minute, and then it ticked from 8:16 to 8:17. A minute later the hand went on to 8:18 and a minute later to 8:19; with the clock's ticking began the passage of time, and with the passage of time came change.


	12. Chapter 12: Coffee Encounter

Austen O'Sullivan had gotten a late start. Her alarm clock hadn't rung on time, her toaster had been broken, and her car had refused to start, forcing her to catch the bus. She finally found herself in sight of the inn twenty four minutes after her norm.

Not that she was actually late. Her "norm" happened to be carefully timed to twenty minutes before Rich Doyle walked through the door, which was usually about half an hour before she had to start work. Today, she was twenty four minutes late, and Rich had just approached the door to leave when she banged it open to enter.

_Crash_!

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorr…oh, my God, oh, no," she moaned. Their collision had upset the coffee he carried and a huge brown spot dripped down his pristine suit.

She grabbed a fistful of paper towels. "I don't know what to say; I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking; it's all my fault." Not him! Anybody but him!

He took the paper towels and dabbed hopelessly at the spreading stain. When he looked up, she had to catch her breath. She always did whenever she got a look at his face.

Rich was cute. Really, really cute. He had large brown eyes with long dark lashes, and his dark hair curled softly over his forehead. His chin had a dimple. His shoulders were broad. He always wore a suit—a suit that, today, she had just dumped coffee all over. She flushed up to the tips of her ears, apologised again, and proffered napkins.

He just gave her one long, disgusted look, like he didn't understand how such worthless scum could be allowed to walk the earth. Then, without saying another word, he turned and walked out of the diner.

Austen looked at Ruby helplessly. "I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

Ruby shrugged. "You know him."

"Oh, my God, I can't believe this!" she wailed. "I finally bump into him, and I literally…bump…into him. Did you see the expression on his face? Do you think he'll forgive me if I pay his dry-cleaning bill?"

"Sweetie, he's Richard Doyle. He can afford a little dry cleaning bill. Besides, what guy wouldn't be willing to pay to have you bump into him?"

"Ruby, I'm dying of embarrassment and the best thing you can do is make _jokes_? This is the first time he's noticed me in…ever, and his first impression is the world's most incompetent waitress?"

"You're not a waitress."

"No, I'm a maid, which is worse!"

"If he doesn't have the decency to accept your apology, he's not worth your time!"

Austen sighed and got a mop. Ruby was probably right. But…well, since the day she'd first seen those clear eyes and broad shoulders come through the door and seen him holding _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, she'd wanted to introduce herself. From Ruby, who knew everything, she found out his name, that he had a sister, and the fact that he was one of the wealthiest men in town; there were rumours he was almost as well off as the legendary Mr Gold. Something always came up to prevent her starting a conversation with him, though, and now…

His disgusted expression stayed with her all day.


	13. Chapter 13: Analysing Dreams

_He heard someone calling his name. He tried to follow the sound; someone was in trouble, someone needed him. He had to find them, whoever it was. If he could just clear away all this purple smoke, he'd be able to see where he was. He just knew he'd be able to find them and help them if he could raise his arms and fan away the smoke. Trying to raise his arms brought no effect: he didn't have control of his own body. Instead, he started walking away from the screams._

_"I have to help! They need me! Let me go!" He struggled against the invisible arms that restrained him. "She needs me!"_

She doesn't need you. You did this to her.

_"I didn't!"_

Look at your hands.

_He didn't dare. He knew he would find blood on them, but he knew that it wasn't his fault; it was whoever was controlling him. But his hands still held the blood. Those screams came from someone his hands had hurt. "I still need to help her! I can help her! She needs me!"_

_Who was she? He had no idea, but he felt that she needed him, and that he needed her. But he couldn't see her; he couldn't find her. This damned fog._

_"Let me go!" Finally his arms somehow released and he tried to shout…_

Rich Doyle sat up in bed, sweating, and groped for the glass of water on his nightstand. He flopped back to stare at the ceiling, tracing the familiar patterns on its corrugated surface, willing his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to come naturally.

What the hell? He'd never had a dream like that.

He began to analyse the events of the day. Whenever something peculiar or unsettling happened to him, he would analyse it and try to make sense of it, particularly dreams. Rich always enjoyed finding the connections between elements of the dream and the events of the day that corresponded.

The voice in the dream, for instance. Vaguely familiar. Recent, important, and somehow unpleasant—the dream had been unpleasant. What happened today that had significantly upset him? Well, perhaps a better question would be what hadn't? Everything had been going wrong. But this was something upsetting having to do with a woman, something he felt guilty about.

Wait…the coffee girl with the pretty brown eyes. The voice matched. Recent—this morning. Familiar—he saw her often (once she'd been reading O Henry) and always wanted to talk to her but could never think of what to say. Unpleasant—he finally met her, and it had to be with coffee dripping down his shirt. Guilt—she'd been upset, trying to help; he'd just walked out without saying a word.

The next step: what to do about it? Apologise, of course. Get something ready to say, so he didn't stumble all over himself like an idiot. He'd write it down, memorise it.

Having completed his analysis, he closed his eyes and began to drift off to sleep. Not tomorrow; it was his day off. But as soon as possible.


	14. Chapter 14: Fired

Mr Gold stood at the corner, watching a scene through a picture window. Since it was evening and the lights in the building blazed, he found it quite easy to watch.

A pretty young woman, probably in her early twenties, stood in the middle of the floor with a book in her hands; a stout elderly woman with a knob of gray hair stood in front of her, hands on hips, lips moving. Mr Gold had exceptional hearing, but at this distance the only thing possible to make out was the shouting anger in the tone. Another girl, about the same age as the first, hid back in the shadows; she played with her hair and looked alternately worried and frustrated.

Gold gripped his cane with both hands and smiled slightly, ready for the denouement. The grey haired lady pointed toward the door. The pretty girl raised her eyebrows and said something so quietly that he didn't hear it at all. Granny looked mildly startled, but without saying anything else she went to the cash register, pulled out a handful of bills, and handed them to the girl, who nodded, waved to Ruby, and picked up a red coat which she slung on as she went out the door.

Mr Gold swung his cane and started across the street.

"Miss O'Sullivan."

She looked up. "Yes? I'm sorry, have we met?"

"No. My name is Mr Gold; I own a pawn and antique shop a little ways up the street."

"Oh. I've heard your name…I think you're my landlady's landlord or something."

He smiled. "Would that be Mrs Boyd?"

"Yeah."

"A lovely woman."

"If you say so. So…what was it you wanted?"

He shrugged. "We're going the same way. Would you mind my accompanying you?"

"Not if we can keep to lit streets and you know I have Mace."

"Those are perfectly acceptable conditions."

"Excuse me if I don't say much. I'm re-evaluating my life."

"Fired?"

"Yeah, just now."

"May I ask what for?"

"Laziness, clumsiness, general incompetence were the reasons listed."

"Reading on the job?"

Surprised, she looked up at his face (he was short for a man, but taller than she was even in heels). "How did you know that?"

He nodded toward her right hand. "You're still holding the book."

"Oh!" She held it up and smiled. "It's one of my favourites."

"Jane Austen? Admirable."

"She's my namesake."

"That's a lovely namesake, now, isn't it?"

"If by lovely you mean the same thing that you meant when you called Mrs Boyd a lovely woman, then I'd have to disagree."

"You don't care for Mrs Boyd?"

"Well…I guess I'm just not feeling very charitable toward the world right now."

"Sometimes it does seem a rather hard place."

She nodded thoughtfully and fingered the well-worn pages of the novel. "That's what you have to love about stories. Sometimes things come out right."

They walked on for a few minutes, the only sound the steady _click, click _of his cane against the pavement. When they had almost reached her street, she turned toward him.

"Okay, so what did you really want?"

"Sorry?"

"I did see you standing outside the café. You were waiting for me, and then when I came out you knew my name and asked to accompany me. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say you haven't been stalking me, but I do think there's something else going on."

He smiled. "You're quite right, Miss O'Sullivan; well done. I have a proposition for you that I believe you may find interesting."

"Oh, really, and what's that?"

"A job."

"A job? Working for you? Doing what? I can't do math and I wouldn't work as hired muscle, so…"

"Oh, no, no, no, nothing like that. Just a clerk's position in my shop. You see, recent events have made it necessary for me to spend a great deal of time away from it, and it's a pity to leave customers without service."

"Me, work with antiques and valuables? That old expression about a bull in a china shop comes to mind. Did you see how I handle just coffee and brooms? It's lucky for Granny her inn is still standing."

"Miss O'Sullivan, I tend to take interest in potential assets. If my cursory observations of you as one of those potential assets are correct, you're only maladroit when forced to hurry, or when uncomfortable. Now, my shop is excellent, but the traffic is scant; you would rarely be in a hurry. As for the discomfort, only you can assess that risk."

"What would my pay be?"

He named a figure just over what she'd been making as a maid.

"Would I have to wear a skimpy uniform?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Only if you wish to."

"Will there be any 'special services' required?"

"Indeed not."

"And I'm assuming there aren't any other clerks?"

"No. It's not a large shop."

"I'm sorry, Mr Gold, but all this seems just a little suspicious. Why would you want me, of all people?"

"I have no interest in your person, Miss O'Sullivan. But rarely do I interest myself in anyone as a _person_. I simply find you to be what I need, and conveniently unemployed. I may add that you would almost exclusively be _in_ the shop while I am _out_ of it; you have very little to fear from me."

"Well, let me think about it. When should I get back to you?"

"The position will remain open." He reached into his breast pocket and presented her with a rectangle of cardstock, laminated and printed with the words _Mr Gold_ in, appropriately enough, gold script. Below that, a series of numbers glittered in the same font.

"The former is my business number and the latter my personal telephone. I receive messages on both. Now, I believe this is your street." Mr Gold made a little bow. "Good evening, Miss O'Sullivan."

She nodded and watched, puzzled, as he strode up the street, leaning on that gold-handled cane.


	15. Chapter 15: Just for a Few Minutes?

"I can't this evening, Kathryn. I promised my sister we'd have dinner together."

"You just have to drop by for a few minutes. Say hi."

"I don't see the benefit of that."

"It was Dr Whale's recommendation that there be as many people there as possible. If we could just trigger _something_…"

"I doubt my appearance will make the chances of his remembering any greater, and tonight I have plans."

"You always have plans. You could _bring_ Missy. Just for a few minutes? Come on. David used to be your friend, remember?"

He sighed. "When does it start?"

"Around six. You could stay for maybe half an hour and still have lots of time for dinner."

"And how many people will be there?"

"Not many. Maybe twenty or thirty."

"Don't expect me to speak to anyone. I'll say hello to David, but that's only because he _is_ my friend."

"Thank you, Rich. See you tonight, then."

"Fine."

"Rich? Hey. Who were you talking to?" His sister Melissa came into the room, pulling her long dark hair back with a silver clip.

"Oh, hey, Missy. You remember David and Kathryn?"

"Nolan? Of course I do. I thought he left her, though."

"So did I, but it turns out he had an accident and wound up in a coma at the hospital. He's better now, and they're sending him home, so Kathryn wants us to come to his welcome home party. Apparently the doctor thinks it would be a good idea to have as many people there as possible. Do you mind? We only have to go for a few minutes, and then we can go have dinner."

"Of course I don't mind, Rich. You practically grew up with the man."

"You're sure?"

"Definitely. And we can spend more than just a few minutes, if you want to. I mean, the only place to eat around here is Granny's, and that's open so late sometimes I suspect the woman must be nocturnal."

She bent and kissed the top of his curly head. "Besides, it might be good for us to get out of the house and spend some time around some people, don't you think?"

He half smiled. "I have very little interest in the human race just now, but you might be right."


	16. Chapter 16: Meet Rich Doyle

**A/N: This is my first attempt at giving them a conversation. Basically they argue about Oscar Wilde for a bit; not the most fascinating of subjects, I know, but bear with me. :) Thanks for reading so far!**

* * *

Austen was out for blood.

Not literally, of course. She had no interest in hurting anyone, nor was she exactly angry, but she did have a certain look in her eye that sent people who knew her well scattering for their lives, unless they felt really, really smart.

Austen O'Sullivan had an exceptional mind, the kind that never had to study for tests and the kind of which teachers made great predictions. She loved to read and could, if she chose, do basic calculus in her head; she also had a startling capacity for storing information and making connections. She tended to shut it off or at least turn it down when performing tasks like cleaning hotel rooms and talking to friends, but every once in a while she got so tired of not using it that it would explode.

And woe betide any innocent bystander in her wake! The lightest remark from another became the resolution of a debate, and she the monomaniacal opponent; she once argued fifteen minutes straight on whether "all kinds" should be used to indicate "each type" or "lots and lots."

If she could find enough people in a row willing to be argued at, she eventually deflated and became nice, normal Austen again, often seeking forgiveness for her behaviour and gaining back everyone's good opinion with sweetness and humour.

She pulled up at the Nolans' house that evening for the welcome home party, mind already clicking and whirring. When Ruby pulled up a moment later in her red car and they greeted each other, Ruby saw the look in her eye and carefully kept her comments more neutral than usual. They went in together, said hello to Kathryn, and then greeted a David who didn't know them but smiled in a polite, distant way.

Then the Nolans turned to other guests, and Ruby spotted a group of young men across the room and took two steps in their direction before feeling Austen's sudden grip on her arm.

"Ruby, there he is. He's right there."

She followed he friend's gaze and saw Rich Doyle on a sofa across the room, reading a book. His white shirt made him look even better than usual, and she imagined that the book and the air of geekiness would be like catnip to bookworm Austen.

Austen squared her shoulders and said, "I'm going to go talk to him."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea? You're in one of those moods."

"What moods?"

"Never mind. Go for it; you've had a crush on him since forever."

"Not after seeing his charming manners!" She left, and Ruby shrugged and sauntered over to the guys across the room.

Being completely forgotten by David, whom she used to like a lot, put Austen even more on edge than a day of mindless TV had. She parted crowds just by the intensity of her look as she bore down on Rich. "What's that?" she asked when she stood in front of him.

He looked up and started when he saw her.

"You! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you remember me, do you? I promise not to dump coffee on you this time."

"I believe the fault was mine. I meant to say I was sorry."

_Sure_, she thought, looking at his sneering expression. "What's that?" she asked again.

"What's what?"

"The book. What are you reading?"

He held it so that she could see the title. _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.

"Ooh, Wilde. Ever read it before?"

"Yes. I read it in high school and again a few years ago."

"What do you think of it?" she asked, laying her trap.

He frowned. "I don't like it at all."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"Because there aren't many books around, and _those_ are of a stamp even more distasteful than _this_."

"So, Oscar Wilde doesn't appeal to you?"

"Actually, I like Wilde generally. But this is…depressing. The main character is unappealing and there's no resolution."

"You think books should have resolution? Life doesn't, you know. There aren't really happy endings generally. The only ending is death, and that's not happy."

"Is realism your absolute literary standard?"

"Isn't the entire point of literature to be able to relate to the characters, to the situations? To find _yourself_ in another place? It's a thousand times easier to do that when the other place _could_ exist, and you _know_ it could."

He looked thoughtful. "Then I would say he's failed there as well. I have no interest in being in a place where cruel, immoral men live forever. Of course, another goal might be to initiate ideas, inspiration, or thoughts; if _that's_ what Wilde was reaching for, he failed categorically. Nothing can be learned except maybe the well-hidden 'don't imitate.'"

Austen perched on the edge of the sofa. "So your idea is that all novels should either be full of weighty moral themes or have happy endings?"

"No, but a novel should either provoke thought or bring pleasure. The best do both; this does neither."

"I don't think the 'moral' is as well hidden as you claim. What about 'take responsibility for your actions'? What about the subtext of the author's lamentation about his own life, which was fairly Dorianesque?"

"It's that very lamentation _consumes_ the book. It's a groan from the author to the public. I don't appreciate emotional tirades in real life and on paper they're even more offensive."

That was only the start. The debate took off from there, continued for more than an hour, and heightened so in intensity that Austen didn't come back to the non-Wildean world until the presence of another person gradually claimed her attention.

The other person had stood by the couch for maybe ten minutes before saying a word. Finally, she just cleared her throat, making the two debaters look up in surprise.

"I'm really sorry to stop you guys, Rich," she said, her brilliant blue eyes flickering back and forth between them, "but I was wondering when you'd be ready to leave. I mean, I don't mind staying, but…"

He stood up quickly. "No, no, that's all right. I'm ready. I'm so sorry, I didn't realise…is it that late?" He stared at the clock.

"It's okay. Like I said, Granny's practically nocturnal. But we can bring…I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Austen. And thanks, but no thanks; I'm going home. It's later than I realised." She smiled at them and scampered off.

Her mind burned. Usually after one of these things, she felt…rested. Relaxed. As if she'd argued away all her aggression and could go back to being happy and non-confrontational. But this time…

She'd finally had a conversation, a real conversation, with Rich. Well, all right, an argument. It had been trivial, but she was somehow _angry_. Angry at his superiority and his coolness and his big words and above all at his _intelligence_. He was _smart_, maybe smarter than she was, and that didn't feel right at all; no one should _ever_ be smarter than she was…

And yet she couldn't help remembering his intense eyes, the colour of chocolate, and…and maybe it would be kind of nice knowing such a smart man…She needed to have another debate just to get that last one out of her system.


	17. Chapter 17: Can't Stop Thinking About It

"Rich, you're being awfully quiet."

Rich started and found his sister gazing at him over the rim of her iced tea. The conversation had fallen into a lull, each thinking their own thoughts. Rich had found himself thinking about the strange encounter he'd had with that Austen girl.

He didn't have conversations with strangers often…or ever. People did approach him occasionally, and he usually scared them off; not necessarily intentionally, but he'd always been bad at small talk. It was this very girl that he'd never been able to approach _because_ he couldn't do small talk, and it turned out she didn't find it interesting either—she went straight to theoretical discussion, which felt significantly more comfortable, and she'd done it so _intelligently_. Unusual, for someone so pretty to be so smart, too…

Missy smiled at him now. Sometimes Rich felt she could practically read his thoughts, and she did now. "Why were you two talking about _Dorian_, anyway?" she asked. "You hate that book, don't you?"

"She tried to convince me it had literary value. I tried to convince her otherwise…I don't think either of us went away actually convinced, only upset," he added, a bit discontented.

"She sure seemed pretty upset. I noticed she kept nervously twitching, like she wanted to say something but not to interrupt you. How long had you guys been chatting, anyway?"

"About an hour, I guess, although it didn't feel like that long."

"And you didn't show any signs of stopping? I shouldn't have pulled you away."

"You'd been waiting, and it wasn't anything important."

"Not important? Rich, she was _keeping_ _pace_ with you. With _you_. Did you notice that? Nobody can keep pace with you when you get into one of your theoretical rants; even I have a hard time keeping up. But she seemed like she knew what you were going to say and…I don't know; I only saw her for a few minutes. What's her last name?"

"I…I don't know. I didn't even know her name was Austen until you came up."

"Well, ask Kathryn about her, then. You two need to spend more time together."

"Can we go back to talking about…what _were_ we talking about, anyway?"

"Nothing, because you were thinking about that girl. Rich…"

"Look, we've seen each other twice. The first time, she spilled coffee on me; the second time, we argued about Oscar Wilde for an hour and a half. Neither of those are fantastic foundations for a friendship."

"Then why are you still thinking about her?"

* * *

"Austen? Is that you?"

"Annabel?" Annabel emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her head.

"Hey, you. How was the party?"

Austen made a face.

"Bad? What happened?"

"Well, David didn't recognise me. That was super uncomfortable."

"You knew that was going to happen; that can't be the reason. What else happened?"

"Well…"

"Come on."

"I may or may not have started a literary debate with Rich Doyle?"

"Oh, Austen! That guy who comes into the diner that you've had a crush on forever?"

"Yeah. No! I haven't had a crush on him. I just…He was reading Oscar Wilde, Annabel! And he was _criticising_ it!"

"You _hate_ Oscar Wilde."

"But I admit he has literary value! Rich said that his book was worthless and that it didn't teach anything and…and now I'm all wound up and grumpy. I need to go…yell at a wall, or prove Fermat's Last Theorem…or…or..."

"Alienate a good-looking stranger?"

"You're not helping!"

"You know what you need, Austen? And don't take this as a value statement. You need a job, or at least you need to look for a job. You need something to think about, no matter how…what's the word?"

"Banal?"

"Yeah. However that it may be, you need something to do. You lost your job last night. You sat around all day today and watched reruns of old soaps, and then your brain exploded, and now you're frustrated with yourself."

"My brain does not explode, and if it did, cleaning hotel rooms wouldn't help."

"Yes, it would. You were a good six weeks away from blood."

"What?"

"Trust me: losing your job was harder on you than you know. Go find something else. I mean, there must be something."

"It's not a big deal; it was just an argument. I'm fine."

"You're fine? Then why are you still thinking about it?"

The sisters paused and looked at each other. Finally, Austen heaved a sigh.

"All right, I'll get a _job_."

Annabel smiled. "Goodnight, Aussie."

"Goodnight, Annie."

When her older sister disappeared in a cloud of shampoo, Austen got out her phone and the little rectangular business card.

The phone rang exactly once. "Mr Gold's Pawnshop and Antiquities. How may I help you?"

"Mr Gold? This is Austen O'Sullivan, from Granny's? I want the job."

Behind his desk across town, Mr Gold put down the silver hook he had just polished and smiled. "That's excellent news, dear. I'll expect you bright and early in the morning."


	18. Chapter 18: Rumours and Nightmares

**AN: So, from here on out the chapters are going to be a tad bit longer, otherwise this thing is going to have...well, a lot of chapters. Enjoy and review!**

* * *

"Well, you look like hell."

"Thanks for that."

"Bad night?"

Austen poured herself a cup of black coffee. "I had the weirdest dream. What time is it?"

"Half past seven."

"Okay; it doesn't even open until eight. Seriously, the dream was weird. And you know what else is weird? I remember like all of it. Usually, you forget dreams, but I remember this one. You know Rich?"

"Of course I do. You haven't stopped talking about him for a week. Did you dream about him?"

"Well, sort of. I heard his voice. What happened was, I was in the forest, and there was this…purple mist? I don't know how to describe it. It was sort of a liquid, but it was smoke…anyway, so this smoke stuff was bearing down on me, and I was pretty sure it was going to hurt me, so I start shouting, because I think that if someone can hear me, they can come rescue me, right? So then I hear Rich's voice, and he's shouting back at me. But you know how in dreams you can never really shout? It's as if you have a blockage in your voice or whatever? Well, this time I didn't, but I could tell that he did—that he was trying to shout, but couldn't. And that really bothered me for some reason."

"Sweetheart, you've been obsessing this guy for as long as you've known him; it's no wonder you've started dreaming about him. Why don't you just go find him?"

"I don't ever want to see him again!" _Maybe._ "My ego took a huge plunge and I don't need that now. I just got my groove going with this job."

"By the way, how _is_ your job working out? I mean, with Mr Gold and everything?"

"Oh, it's…fine, I guess. I mean, Mr Gold doesn't really factor into it. I saw him my first day and he gave me my key, and since then he's always been out when I got there; I just follow the schedule he puts out for me. But he's paying me today, according to the chart, so I should probably catch a glimpse of him this time."

"You don't find it a little odd that your employer hires you to watch his shop and never checks in on you or anything? What do you think he does all day?"

"Of course I think it's weird, Annabel, which is why I'm going to ask him about it when I see him today. Unless, of course, he leaves the money on the counter with a note, in which case I will happily take my fistful of dollars and start looking for another job. David Nolan just got hired down at the animal shelter."

"You're really, really bad with animals, Aussie."

"Those goldfish perished from natural causes."

"Sure they did. You'll want to get going if you want to get there by eight."

* * *

Mr Gold did not leave her money on the counter; when she banged open the door she heard his voice from the back where his office was. "Miss O'Sullivan?"

"Mr Gold?"

He emerged, limping. "Good morning! How delightful to see you."

"Yeah, you too. I'm not working today; I just came in for the pay you promised."

"Yes, of course. How would you like it? Cash, check, direct deposit?"

"Cash, if you please."

"Perfect." He opened the cash register and began withdrawing bills. "Now, let me see. You've worked…fifty hours this week?"

"Yeah, I have, and you know what? I haven't seen hide or hair of the owner for one single one of those. How on earth is it that you've been away from this shop for fifty hours?"

"It's been a busy week. The sheriff's death, for one, and rent due, for another."

"I'm assuming that by 'rent due' you mean 'free money for Mr Gold' week."

"Nothing is ever free, Miss O'Sullivan. Everything comes with a price, even you." He handed her the money, as if for emphasis.

Just then the door banged suddenly, jangling the bell and making Austen jump. She turned around.

Of all the people in the world, Rich Doyle himself walked through, closed the door behind him, and crossed the room to Mr Gold in two strides. His dark eyes glittered and his brow was deeply furrowed; his face almost glowed with anger.

"Mr Gold, we have something to discuss. I…" Then he saw Austen and did a double take.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here. What are you doing here?" she asked, almost equally surprised.

"I…business. _You_ work with Mr Gold?"

"I wouldn't say I work _with_ him; more like I work _for_ him. I think you only technically work _with_ someone if they actually do work in the same building that you do, at roughly the same time."

"Miss O'Sullivan, you can go now. You have your money, and Mr Doyle seems to have something to discuss with me." Mr Gold's voice, as always, was perfectly even and gentle; still, the tone made Austen just a little uncomfortable. She brushed it off.

"Mr Doyle," she said, "seems to like to discuss things."

"Your name is O'Sullivan?" Rich asked, his attention completely diverted from Mr Gold.

"Is that a problem?"

"No, indeed. I'm glad to know it."

"Now you can get the court case ready, right?"

"Only if Wildean advocacy is a crime, which it hasn't been for a while."

"What about working for Mr Gold?"

The smile disappeared. "That is a crime against only yourself," he replied.

"Miss O'Sullivan, I really do believe it is time for you to go," Mr Gold said. He'd had his eyes fixed on the visitor the entire time, something illuminating them that Austen had never seen before.

_What's the story there?_ She would have liked to stay in protest of Mr Gold's comment, but she really did have to be home soon. "I'll be in tomorrow, then. Have fun with your discussion."

* * *

Austen perched on a stool in the diner, licking an ice cream cone. Granny was out doing…whatever it is Granny did when she wasn't at the diner.

Ruby, bored at the lack of customers and feeling freer without Granny's watchful eye, came and flopped down next to Austen. "Heard you got a new job," she said.

"Yep. At the pawnshop."

"With Mr Gold?" Ruby's eyes widened. "Oh, this I _have_ to know about. How did you get it? What's he like? Is he as stingy with you as he is to everyone else?"

"No, he's paying me okay. But it's weird. He doesn't seem to spend any time there at all; I worked there fifty hours this week and only ever saw him twice."

"Did you talk to him? What did you say?"

Austen laughed. "You thinking of making a conquest of him, too?"

"What? No. Ew. But nobody knows anything about him. He's a _mystery_!"

"And you're Nancy Drew now?"

"Well, I like to know things. Who doesn't? So spill. Tell me all about him."

"The only thing I really know, apart from the fact that he's limitlessly wealthy and admires Jane Austen, is that he and Rich Doyle hate each other."

Ruby looked disappointed. "Oh, _everyone_ knows that."

"And by _everyone_, you mean you."

"Well, maybe. Don't _you_ know?"

"No, I have no idea. You somehow left out that little detail when you were telling me about Rich. So what happened? Why do they hate each other?"

"Well, they're like the two richest men in town, richer even than Mayor Mills; you know that part. I guess they've kind of known each other for forever and they used to be friends. But then there was this girl, and Mr Gold was like crazy in love with her, and…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on. Mr Gold, crazy in love? No way!"

"Yeah, I know, right? I don't know if she liked him back or not; I never heard that part of the story. But the thing was Rich totally stole her from him. Then, just when she started to like him, he dumped her."

"And?" Austen asked in fascinated horror.

"Nobody knows. Some people say she left town, and some people say she ended up dying. Not of a broken heart or anything, but she got in a car wreck or fell out of a tree or something. Anyway, Gold has hated Rich ever since."

"Wow. You don't usually picture Mr Gold as being the victim type." Somehow, the image was pleasing. It made him more human, less superior. She liked the idea of a Mr Gold who could be betrayed or heartbroken. But Rich Doyle acting that way she found a little harder to swallow. Rude, definitely; self-centred, probably; but wilfully cruel?

Ruby didn't know anything else, so she kept pressing Austen with questions about the man until Austen, too, ran out of information.

* * *

Rich heard his sister's footsteps before he saw her. He turned around and she stood in the doorway, a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows.

"Hey. You're up late," she observed.

"Oh, I went to bed, but then I…got back up."

"Bad dreams again?"

He flushed. "Sort of. It's the same one it's been for days now, but a lot…more, today. More screaming and blood and whatever. But I'm fine; I just need to think it out."

"Is that your answer to everything? Just think it out?"

"You know me well enough to answer that."

She smiled and poured herself a cup of coffee. "So how did your meeting with Mr Gold go?"

Rich frowned. "About as I predicted. I did get him to settle; he's not interested in going to court."

"But…none of it was illegal."

"No, but he knows a court case would mean an investigation, and he's always been…"

"Private?"

"Secretive. Deceptive. Manipulative…"

"Rich, are you still angry?"

"Of course I'm still angry, Melissa. It was all I could do to keep from striking him."

"I am _okay_, Richard. I promise…there's something else, isn't there?"

"How do you always know all these things?"

"Well, I'm your sister. I guess it's my birthright or something."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "That girl is working for him now. The girl from the diner, who had that argument with me. The one I've been…dreaming about. She's working at his pawnshop."

"And that bothers you?"

"I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

"She seemed to me she could…she seemed like she could take care of herself. I mean, if she was arguing with you and holding her own…?"

"You're probably right."

_Thunder and heavy rainfall. He could just see the purple smoke billowing up from the horizon, and the screams started. His name, over and over again. She needed him. He had abandoned her, and now she was hurt terribly, and he had to find her, had to fix it._

_Mr Gold stood there, leaning on his cane, his eyes wider than human eyes should be. He realised that Mr Gold had always been there, but he'd been hiding._

_"This was you! This was all you! Make it stop!"_

_"I'm willing to make a deal with you."_

_"This wasn't in the deal! You're breaking the deal! Just make it stop, before it's too late!"_

_"Let's make a deal."_

_"No more deals! No more games!"_

_He heard her cries. He tried to run to her, but he slipped in the blood; still Mr Gold stood there, smiling, leaning on his cane. "Let's make a deal…"_


	19. Chapter 19: The Teacup

The bell jangled. In some shops, the bell was a symbol of cheer and a fresh beginning; the door as good as said "Welcome in! You never know what you're going to find in here today! Why don't you talk to that nice cashier over there?" In this shop, the silence made the bell sound lonely, reverberating in the dusty shop and meeting with no reply but its own echo. "Mr Gold?" she called out. The shop appeared empty, but a moment later the _click, click_ of his cane could be heard against the floor in the back, and he manifested from behind the curtains that separated his office from the main shop.

"Miss O'Sullivan!" He looked genuinely surprised. "You aren't due for another hour!"

"I thought I'd turn up a bit early. You never really gave me a proper tour of the place, you know."

"What's to tour? There's not much here."

"I like to understand something I'm going to spend time with. If you're not too busy, of course."

"No, indeed. I'd be only too happy to show you anything you wish to see. It's been a slow morning."

"It's always a slow morning around here."

He smiled. "Fortunately, this shop is not my primary income."

"Yeah, fortunately." She looked at the man, with his greying hair neatly brushed back from his weathered face and his mouth curled up in a calm smile, and tried to imagine _him_ desperately in love. When she remembered the look in his eyes the other day, she could almost manage it.

"So, what is it exactly you would like to be informed about?" he enquired.

"Well, a customer asked the other day about the mobile. Do you know where it comes from?"

He shrugged. "It's been gathering dust for forever. In truth, most of the things in this shop have no history, or no recorded history. They've simply lived here as long as they've been in this world."

"What about the things that haven't? Is there anything special? Like that cup." She went around the counter, unlocked the display case, and took out a teacup with a little chip in it. "You display this prominently, but to my uneducated eyes, it just looks like…well, a cup. A chipped one, at that. Is it some special kind of china, or…?"

"Please give that back. Please, don't touch that." He reached out his hand to take the cup, and though his perfectly steady voice betrayed no emotion, she noticed that his hand trembled.

"It doesn't look like much, does it? Is it part of a set?"

"It used to be, but the set was destroyed. Give it to me; you'll damage it."

"How much would it go for by itself?" she asked, finally surrendering the cup. He gripped it, and she saw him visibly relax.

"It's not for sale," he said.

"Too valuable?"

"No, on the contrary. It's a trinket; practically worthless. No one would pay any significant price for it." She noticed that he leaned on his cane with his elbow and cradled the "trinket" in both hands.

"I think I like it. Could I get that for ten bucks?"

He looked at her with one eyebrow raised, and then started to smile, ever so slowly. "Miss O'Sullivan," he said, "since you're here, I think I'll depart a bit early. I have quite a schedule today. Oh, a package came for you the other day; it's on my desk, wrapped in yellow paper. Good day."

He limped across the shop until he was almost at the door.

"It was hers, wasn't it?" Austen asked, nonchalantly.

Mr Gold paused for a long time, his hand on the door handle. Then she heard him chuckle softly. He opened the door, which jangled, and stepped out into the street. "Good day, Miss O'Sullivan," he said, and was gone.

* * *

Rich had been sitting there for an hour, trying to read. His concentration just kept wandering away from the trials of Sydney Carton and onto his own problems, which were, in order: his sister, the election, Mr Gold, and of course Austen O'Sullivan.

Why "of course"? He'd sort of…always thought of her. Before he'd ever met her properly, before he even knew her name, idle moments tended to bring her face to his mind. But over the past three or four days they'd met several times, whether just in the street, or in the grocery store, or at get-togethers. At their most recent encounter, they'd somehow fallen into an argument about feminism; it hadn't been friendly.

Her stubbornness irritated him. She'd insisted that he—that all men—were basically sexist, and had made unexpectedly good points on the subject. He'd debated and refuted the point with his usual thoroughness, which seemed to irritate _her_.

Still, her directness, passion and intelligence intrigued him, and it was this intrigue that he sat puzzling over in Granny's Diner at two in the afternoon. Of course, those qualities _merited_ admiration, but he had noticed those same qualities in the deputy sheriff, and she rarely if ever entered his thoughts. Somehow, his ability to analyse and categorise fell short here.

"Austen!"

The sound of her name made him look up. There she was. She perched on a stool at the other end of the diner, back to him; she wore the same bright blue shirt she'd been wearing the night of the Wilde debate. That waitress who wore too much makeup leaned over her. Rich could just hear their conversation, though he didn't consciously eavesdrop.

"Austen, I can tell you've got something."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ruby."

"You said you'd tell me anything you found out!"

"If I said that, it was only because I didn't know anything and you wouldn't stop asking questions."

"But you said it."

"Ruby, I didn't really find out anything new."

"Then tell me what _happened_."

Austen sighed. "I noticed this old teacup that seemed really important to him. He said it wasn't valuable so I offered to buy it, but he changed the subject."

"You think it belonged to her?"

"I don't know. I asked, but he just laughed and didn't say anything."

Rich heard a low chuckle and turned back around. Regina Mills, the mayor, stood in the doorway looking directly at Austen and Ruby. She looked pleased.

_Who were they talking about?_ he wondered. _And how does Regina know about it?_

Ruby had seen him, but she didn't know about him. Therefore, given Ruby's people skills, he was private to the point of being mysterious. Regina wanted power over him. Therefore, given Regina's power over almost everyone, he was unusually powerful—a threat. Austen knew him, spent time with him.

Mysterious, powerful, Austen…

_Mr Gold._

He nodded. Logical. But now they'd changed subjects, and Regina left, apparently no longer interested in the diner. Rich tried to focus back on his book, but once again a name drew his attention to the conversation across the room.

"…Rich Doyle was there, though. We had another…disagreement."

"You know, I think he likes you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The first day he came in after you left he asked about you. When he found out you were gone…well, you know how he used to come in every day? He's only been in like twice this week."

"You're being ridiculous. The man hates me. We argue every time we see each other."

"I think you should try for him."

"Ruby, you're you, and you're a wonderful person, but I'm not you, and so I don't want to act like you. I'm not going to treat men as carelessly as you do. Men are people too."

"Whatever you say. Hey, my shift's over! There's a movie tonight; want to go?"

"I can't; Annabel invited some friends for dinner. Actually, I should probably get going now."

Rich raised the book so that it covered his face—thankfully, it was a rather bulky edition—and she walked by, chatting with Ruby, and never even saw him.


	20. Chapter 20: Candidates

**AN: This one's longish. I wanted to give them a full-fledged debate about something fun, so here you go. Enjoy! Reviews super appreciated.**

* * *

New posters were going up. Glass's face on a red, white and blue background, promoting safety and American loyalty, seemed a bit colourless next to the bright images of Emma helping a wounded Regina out of a burning building. Rich studied the posters, hung practically side by side just outside the ice cream shop. He'd met Glass a few times and didn't think much of him, whereas Emma had impressed him after only one encounter, but he tried to keep his opinion impartial.

He became gradually aware of a hissed conversation behind him, ending with "Ruby, no, don't…"

He turned around. That waitress, Ruby, stood a few feet away, smiling; she had a death grip on Austen O'Sullivan, who squirmed a little.

"Hey, Rich," Ruby said. "Checking out potential candidates?"

"In a sense."

"Bet I can guess who you're voting for," she said. Ruby wore a clingy red coat, bright red lipstick, a red beret, and red boots with six inch heels, but Rich found himself noticing that Austen's navy windbreaker complimented her dark eyes.

"Oh, really?"

"Yep. Sidney Glass."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because, I mean, think about it. There's a choice between a well-respected member of society and some characterless girl who came into town three weeks ago? It's not hard to figure out."

"Well, I will admit that it's preferable to have someone known…"

"Even when he's _known_ to be a wimp who lives in the mayor's pocket?" Austen asked, finally wrenching herself from Ruby's grip.

"I don't know that it's necessary for high-ranking officials to be antithetical."

"Even when _everyone_ listens to Regina and _nobody_ stands up to her?"

"If they do their jobs correctly and justly, and keep the town safe, I would say that 'not standing up to Regina' is a minor character flaw."

"Really? You don't see that she owns the town and always has her own way, whether it's what's best or not?"

"Then the addition of another flunky won't make much difference, and Emma Swan, while colourful and noticeable, has very little stability to her. She doesn't seem to respect the law very much at all; she was imprisoned twice in the past three weeks. Also, the only reason she's here is her son. Given her character, it's likely that she'll spend more time concerned with him than with our safety."

"Whereas _Sidney_ will spend all his time licking the mayor's boots and won't give a crap about our safety."

Ruby quietly slipped away, with a 'my-work-here-is-done' expression on her face.

"On the contrary. If Sidney has one quality it's his ambition, and since he doesn't answer to the mayor but to the people in this democratic instance, his ambition will be directed toward their good opinion and not hers."

"The man's in love with her. Nothing's going to stop his ambition from being directed toward her good opinion."

"The picture of Emma and Regina was taken by Sidney Glass, because his news spirit outweighed his desire to please Regina. That should mean something."

"The fact that his winning would 'please' Regina should mean something, too."

"I can't base all of my decisions based on whether it will please someone I dislike or not."

"You can when it's Regina. If she likes it, you can be darn sure it's going to kill the rest of us."

"She seems quite fond of her son."

"Yeah, I'm still trying to figure that out. But the point is that Sidney's only running at all because Regina told him to. If he'd really rather be in news, doesn't that say that Regina overrides all his personal decisions? Your own argument comes back for you."

"And Emma is running…why? To _beat_ Regina? Is that any better of a motivation?"

"Hell yeah it is. At least she'll be sure to make her own decisions."

"If her sole purpose is to beat Regina, and Sidney's is to flatter her, then neither of them will be making their own decisions; they'll both be basing them on what she thinks, just in different directions. That being the case, it may be preferable to choose someone familiar with Storybrooke and its inhabitants and customs."

"Someone familiar with Storybrooke and its habits and customs is what we've always had, everywhere! We need someone to shake things up a bit! Someone who's not afraid of people like Regina; someone who can stand up to her."

"The mere fact that she is able to stand up to Regina doesn't make her a good candidate for sheriff. Again, Henry comes to mind; he stands up to her every day."

"I mean someone who can _do_ something about it!"

"I'm not sure anyone can do anything about the current balance of power."

"Sheriff is a powerful position."

"Yes, but a rook by itself against a queen and all her pieces? Sounds like a pretty unbalanced endgame to me."

"You play chess?" she asked, concentration momentarily broken.

"I used to. Do you?" he enquired.

"No, but…" She shook herself. "But the point is, should we vote for who's likely to win, or for who's _right_?"

"If we vote for who's _right_, and the right is powerless, what good have we done?"

"If we vote _against_ the right, to keep the powerful in power, what good have we done?"

"If neither side will make a difference in the balance of power or morality, why not vote for someone who will do the job?"

"How do you know that neither side will make a difference? Wouldn't even a _little_ change be better than the same old bootlicking? Emma Swan is a good person, and, as you pointed out, she's fighting for her son. Mothers can get _fierce_ fighting for their kids."

"And once the fight's over? Once she has to protect other people, and not just him? Will it matter to her, if the perpetrator isn't Regina and the victim isn't Henry?"

"Has she acted that way since she became deputy sheriff? She's been doing the job great for weeks."

"Exactly. Weeks. Not months, not years. She's spent less than three weeks here; she's known to be unreliable—moves from place to place. Maybe she is a good person, maybe she is a strong person, but if she's not a dependable person what good is she in the end?"

"And what good is someone you can depend on to be bad and weak?"

"You still haven't conclusively shown me that he _is_, or that he would do the job badly. Your only problem with him appears to be that he tends to agree with Regina's policies, not all of which, I may add, are harmful."

"Maybe not all of them. But everyone's afraid of Regina, of what she can and has done. She destroys what people love. What kind of town is that, where everyone lives in fear? Suppose Sidney does the job; suppose he keeps us all safe. Are we really _safe_ if we're all afraid? Something needs to change."

"And you think that somehow, the election of one person is going to fix all of our problems?"

"Have you ever heard of an opposition party?"

Taken aback, he said, "Of course. It's a political group, particularly in parliamentary government, that votes down the party in power."

"Now, do they ever do any good? Who's to say? They don't have the majority. By definition, they're not _in power_. But just by making their voice heard, just by _being there_ and saying 'no,' they show that government isn't tyrannical. And sometimes people listen, because that party being there means that no one person or group of people have total control; since _they_ can stand up to them, why can't _we_? We have a chance to vote in a kind of mini opposition party. Maybe it'll make a difference around here, however small. A difference that, you know as well as I do, _needs_ to be made."

"Hear, hear!"

Rich and Austen both jumped. Somehow, neither of them had noticed the crowd that had gathered, attracted to the heated debate: a small group of schoolchildren, a couple of waitresses from Granny's, several young men in sweats, the ice cream man, and a mechanic. The cheer had come from one of the waitresses.

The crowd looked back at them expectantly, apparently not interested in further active involvement. "Don't stop on our account," the mechanic said, grinning.

Rich turned warily back to Austen. "I was going to say," he began slowly, uncomfortable at the thought of being heard by lots of people, "that that would be all well and good, but we come back to reliability. I once had a professor who claimed that you only had to have an IQ of 105 to get through college, and 110 to get a Ph.D. The idea behind that lecture was that intelligence, or more broadly, ability in general, is useless if you don't have the drive to work. This woman's perseverance seems limited, and you haven't addressed that argument satisfactorily."

"Emma Swan is a risk-taker and a challenge accepter. What if you were to find that the reason she moves around so much is that she gets bored? She needs a challenge, and Regina is a challenge if I ever saw one. Maybe her perseverance is directly proportional to the difficulty."

"Maybe, perhaps, what if. Are you really willing to take those risks? Supposing she doesn't get enough challenge and gets _bored_? It's an extremely arbitrary, unstable basis. Or conversely, what if Regina is too much for her? She's governed this town for…a long time." It suddenly bothered him that he couldn't remember exactly how long. "She's faced revolutionaries and malcontents before. What if she squashes this girl like she has others? Then we'll have neither your change nor a decent sheriff. At best, we'd still have someone who ends up bowing to Regina's policies, and it would be a stranger with a poor reputation."

"You main problem with her is because she's a stranger with a poor reputation, isn't it? Many great men of the world have been outcasts and strangers! That's no foundation for dislike!"

"It's no foundation for sheriff's office, either—a position which requires discipline, responsibility, and respect for the law. And I never said I disliked her; on the contrary, I find her rather impressive. I simply refuse to allow my impressions to cloud my judgement or impartiality."

"So now I'm an emotional woman who can't think clearly because of my _feelings_. This is exactly what I was talking about the other day!"

"I had no intention of implying that, even subconsciously, I assure you. I wouldn't attempt to debate you if I believed you incapable of clear thinking."

"And yet, on the other hand," she added, as if she had been thinking about it, "are emotions entirely useless? Don't you ever get gut feelings? Shouldn't choices at least partially be based on what would make you happy?"

"I…think it's more important to make choices based on what's _beneficial_, rather than what makes you _feel_ good," he said, a bit surprised. This woman constantly surprised him.

"All right, then define beneficial."

"Sorry, are we still talking about the election?"

"Yeah, we are. Define beneficial. What would be _beneficial_ in a sheriff?"

"Well, the position of sheriff exists to promote justice and order. So, characteristics that would do so: tenacity, honour, ability, and respect for law."

"And you don't think Emma has those things? She was hired _for_ her ability; she was a bail bondsperson or something before, so she's got that down. She's awfully stubborn, if that's what you mean by tenacity."

"What about honour and respect for the law? And I'm not so sure about tenacity, in the long run."

"I'd say honour is more important than respect for law, and she's got that."

"If she's going to be the sheriff, she has to abide by the law. That's the definition of sheriff."

"Is it more important to do what's legal than what's right? Is what's legal always what's right?"

"That's another topic entirely. The point is, as a sheriff, she will have to swear to uphold the law. Her track record is not fantastic in that regard."

"Besides the frame job, she got put in jail once for a driving accident and once for a juvy record. That doesn't exactly say 'disrespect for the law.'"

"Even so, Glass has a much better history."

"As I don't think either one of you are going to convince the other, this conversation may as well come to an end," a voice broke in. Rich had somehow completely forgotten about the crowd. He flushed when he saw that it had almost doubled in size since the last time he'd been paying attention. This time, though, the voice was Mr Gold's.

He stood there in his dark suit, black shirt, and royal blue tie, smiling slightly at both of them.

"Not that I don't appreciate a good debate, but perhaps if you feel the need to continue it you might do so elsewhere than directly in front of my shop?" Rich looked up, and sure enough, Mr Gold's Pawn Shop loomed over them. They must have migrated down the street during their argument and not noticed it.

"This is a public street," Rich pointed out. "We have a right to be here."

Mr Gold raised his eyebrows. "I'm simply requesting a certain amount of respect for my space, Mr Doyle. I would threaten you with a call to the sheriff, but, well…" He laughed. "At any rate, Miss O'Sullivan, your schedule says you were to report for work half an hour ago. _That_ is an area over which I have some jurisdiction."

"In other words, you'll fire me if I don't leave off and get to work?"

"You are, as ever, charmingly direct, Miss O'Sullivan. Please, head in. Everyone else, you are also welcome if you have a purchase in mind." He opened the door to let Austen in, and then headed off down the street toward the Town Hall with most of the rest of the crowd to watch the debate.

Rich toyed with the idea of going in after Austen and finishing the conversation where they would almost certainly not be interrupted. He had reached out his hand for the door handle when the awkwardness of the situation struck him. What would she think if he went in after her?

At any rate, he wanted to go to that debate. Missy had a cold and couldn't go, so he'd promised to fill her in on the details.

* * *

Austen tied an old apron on over her clothes. What was the point, she wondered, of keeping the shop open after eight at night, when everyone would be at the debate anyway?

She pulled out a feather duster and was just going to tackle the layers of grime on some old pictures when she saw Rich, still standing outside, looking in. She caught her breath when he reached out for the door handle. Was he coming in? Did he want to finish their conversation?

No, he turned away and headed up the street toward Town Hall. She exhaled, not sure if she was relieved or…or disappointed?

_Where did that come from?_ Disappointed that he didn't come in? Why should she be? He was stuck-up and argumentative and unsympathetic and rude. Just because he was young and good-looking and brilliant didn't mean that she should…

The problem wasn't whether she _should_ or not. The problem was that even if she _did_, he _didn't_. He was too stuck on himself. Austen had always hated that, hated people like that. If one thing got her mad, it was arrogance. She ground her teeth and attacked the dust, sending it spraying everywhere, trying to work off some of the tension. Somehow, debating wasn't the same stress-reliever when she didn't _win_. Not that she had _lost_, but he had gotten in the last word and made some almost irrefutable points.

(Mere minutes later, across town, a man stood up and walked out, his cane clicking against the tiles of the floor. A minute afterward, another man stood up and walked out after him.

"You wanted that to happen, didn't you, Gold?"

Mr Gold stopped and turned with a broad smile on his face. "Whatever do you mean, Mr Doyle?"

"You planned the whole thing out. You knew people would like her just because she wasn't afraid of you."

"I see that old intuition hasn't dulled one whit, Mr Doyle, misguided as it may be. I'd love to face you in a game of chess one day."

"Better make it poker. Your face when you walked out was flawless."

Mr Gold merely grinned.)

Behind a knife display case, Austen, while chasing a spider, found the stack of old books. Her face brightened. She hastily put down her duster, having pretty well eliminated the dust from every available surface, and completely forgot about the spider. Somehow, she had heretofore failed to venture into this part of the shop.

_Gulliver's Travels_, 1902. _20 000 Leagues under the Sea_, 1892. Bernard Shaw's _Saint Joan_, 1923. _Grimm Fairy Tales_, with no date that she could find; beautifully illustrated in watercolours. _A Tale of Two Cities_, 1947. There were about fifteen in all, none newer than 1960, all classics, and all beautifully kept. She began to page through _Grimm_ with ever so careful fingers, eyes lingering on the brightly coloured pictures and drinking in the familiar old fairy stories.

The bell jangled. She closed the book quickly but carefully and came up to the front.

Mr Gold stood before her, smiling to himself. "Good evening, Miss O'Sullivan. The debate finished earlier than expected, and I thought you might like a chance to vote."

"Don't you want to?"

"I voted this morning. Stop a moment," he said. He took a step forward and peered down into her face. "You look rather upset; is anything the matter?"

"Why should you care?" she asked, surprised.

He shrugged. "I only thought you might want to talk about it."

"With you? Not likely."

"No, indeed. Well, go and vote, and then on home. I'm closing the shop up now, but this'll count as a day's work."

"Do I get a discount? On stuff in the shop, I mean," she wanted to know as she headed for the door. She tried to make it sound as casual as possible.

"You can have the books, Miss O'Sullivan," he replied immediately. "They're for you."

"For me? But…but you already bought me the _Pride and Prejudice_ and that beautiful _Jane Eyre_."

"Oh, I didn't buy _these_ for you. But clearly, they were meant for you—right up your alley, if you will. I've read them already, and at any rate I prefer more utilitarian books. Books are meant to be read, not displayed."

"I believe that too, most of the time. In some ways, though…well, there's just something about a book that's seen decades. You wonder who read them, where they've been, what stories they've seen beyond their own."

He smiled. "There's a great deal of charm in anything with a history. I've always thought so."

"Really?"

"Ever wonder why I keep an antique shop?"

"Oh. So…then, why the pawn part? Just for the money?"

"I have enough money, dearie. No, a man's objects are, essentially, the key to the man. Look at what he keeps on his table, and you're looking at what he holds most dear. Look at what he sells, and you see the man changing. You might say that this shop, in its own way, holds the history of Storybrooke."

"But what good is a history if no one remembers?"

He smiled. "That's the question, isn't it, Miss O'Sullivan?"

"I wish you'd call me Austen. It's a lot less of a mouthful."

"Well, then, Austen, good night."

"Good night, Mr Gold."


	21. Chapter 21: Her Name Was Belle

_Da_dee da, dee_da_, da, da, da, _da_dee da dee_da…_

"What is that?"

Mr Gold looked up from his file box. It was one of the rare occasions that he and she were in the shop together; he'd gone out early that morning with a leather jacket that had belonged to the late sheriff, but had returned within the hour, smiling to himself, and immediately began to organise some old records.

"What is what?" he asked.

"That song you keep humming."

He gave her an uncomprehending look.

"_Hm_hmm, hmm_hm_, hm, hm, something. You hum it when you're concentrating."

"Oh. That's…I don't really know. I heard it a long time ago." He continued to sort through the old box, but he didn't hum anymore.

Austen sighed. "What was her name?" she asked.

"Whose name?"

"_Her_ name. The girl you used to like. The girl they say Rich Doyle stole from you."

"And what on earth makes you believe there ever was such a person?"

"Well, for one, your face right now."

She could see him composing his face to a more neutral expression, carefully reconstructing his guard, and calculating his response. Finally he reached a decision.

"Belle. Her name was Belle." The gentle tone didn't match any other she'd ever heard him use.

"What…what was she like?" she wanted to know, perching on the counter.

He waved his hands vaguely, as if at a loss for words. Most of the time, Austen reflected, this man acted as though he had everything under control and the world was his; still, there were moments, little infinitesimal moments, when he just seemed…helpless.

"She was a bit like you, really," he said at last. "Young, beautiful, vibrant. Intelligent—one of the most intelligent women I ever knew—and very, very kind. Her hair was this glorious mess of curls, dark like yours, but her eyes were liquid blue; they seemed like they were made for crying, but they always laughed and sparkled instead."

"Did you love her?"

"I've often asked myself that question."

"So the cup, that was hers?" He nodded. "And that song you hum. She used to sing it, didn't she?"

He kept his expression neutral this time, but she saw his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Yes."

"So what happened to her?"

"She died. She was treated very cruelly, and she killed herself."

Austen gasped. "Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to…"

He smiled a little. "It's all right. Your curiosity, I suppose, is natural. And it's been a very long time."

"But how could he do that?" she stammered. "He doesn't seem like that kind of person at all. How could he do that to her?"

"Mr Doyle?" Mr Gold's eyes glittered. He spoke through his teeth. "It wasn't _her_ he did it to, it was _me_. He never cared about hurting _her_."

"But why? Why would he want to hurt you?"

"Well, Miss O'Sullivan, I can only tell you that not everyone is kind and forgiving."

_I didn't really believe it at first_, Austen wrote in her journal that evening. _I guess I didn't want to believe that someone__—well, that Rich, really—_could be so terrible. But the look on his face when he mentioned Rich made me realise it was all true.

_What kind of a person must he be?_

* * *

Cold and rain and wind and darkness and gnawing hunger and a six mile walk because the damned car had broken down again and nothing but a T-shirt and shorts and worn out flip flops on and no cell phone and nobody around and nobody would come looking for her because she'd told Annabel not to wait up.

Austen felt fairly sure that she had never been more miserable than she was right at that moment.

And all for what? Soul-searching? Some googly-eyed idea that if she could get off by herself she'd be able to think it out? She'd realised in about thirteen seconds how well _that_ was going to go. She thought things out by _talking_; she always had. She should have gone to the club or one of Ruby's parties and just talked to somebody. That way, she would have been downtown and maybe could have caught a taxi or gotten a ride, or even if she hadn't could easily have walked the half a mile back to her house and would by now be relaxing in front of the space heater in her robe and fuzzy pyjamas with some of that awful microwave soup that tasted like MSG, or maybe she'd have been able to scrounge up the remains of a packet of hot chocolate with little sugary marshmallows and the last of the milk, and she could have gotten to the first proposal in _Anne of the Island_.

She pulled her hair down over her face in an attempt to keep out the freezing wind. Or, barring that sensible course of action, she continued railing in her head, she should have reasoned that she might be there a while and gotten a hoody and some sneakers or something. A hoody she could have tied around her waist. Why did she even _own_ flip-flops? Had she thought somehow that this would be _romantic_?

Austen had nothing against long walks. She _liked_ long walks. She would often _choose_ to go on long walks, even when there were other options. But this…

Her fingers had lost all their feeling. Cold permeated every part of her, even under her arms and the back of her neck. Her wet hair did nothing against the air or the rain. Her clothes dripped, although the air bit so much that she felt fairly certain she would soon be a mass of ice. It would be hours before she got home, even assuming that she was going the right way, seeing as the fog was so thick she could barely see the road.

Running did nothing to warm her up or make her feel better, because she slipped and fell in mud puddles and became even wetter and colder than ever. The two cars that had passed her had splashed water and either not seen her or chosen to ignore her; she memorised the appearance of the cars and spend several pleasant minutes fantasising about what she would do to them if she ever saw them again.

Tears of misery began to spill down her face and over her nose, mixing with the raindrops. The image of Richard Doyle kept swimming in front of her eyes; she'd been trying to think about him, which was why she was out here. Plenty of time to think about him now, but all she could think was how much she hated him for putting her out here in this miserable weath…

_Beep, beep!_

She stopped and peered through the fog. In the distance she could just make out a pair of headlights, going the same direction she was. She started jumping up and down wildly. "Hey! Hey! Hey, help!"

_Beep, beep!_

The car pulled up—a very attractive middle-aged sedan, deep blue. The window rolled down and she heard an all-too-familiar voice.

"Austen? Austen, are you okay? Do you need a ride?"

"Rich Doyle?" she shouted over the sound of the car and the rain.

"Yeah, it's me. What are you…? Get in! You'll freeze to death!" She could _feel_ the warmth oozing out the window…She made a split second decision and grabbed the door handle, reasoning that mental and emotional discomfort, quickly over, beat prolonged physical agony out by a mile.

The seat was heated. The warm air rushed around her and dried her almost faster than she could have imagined possible as Rich drove on.

"Just remember I keep Mace on me at all times," she said.

"Okay…Are you…?" He gave her a puzzled look. "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, if I may ask?"

"Rain dancing. Pretty sure it worked," she replied, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "And not that I'm not grateful for your help, but what are _you_ doing all the way out here?"

He was silent for a minute. Austen noticed him arranging his face and calculating his response, like Gold had done that afternoon.

"I like to be alone when I think," he said at length. That appeared to be the end of it.

After waiting a few minutes to see if he'd say anything else, she said, "I was just talking about you to Mr Gold."

The car swerved, almost imperceptibly. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I was wondering why you hated him so much."

"It's complicated and frankly, personal. Just…I wouldn't trust him, if I were you. He won't be a good friend."

"He's been fair and generous to me. His only problem seems to be unwillingness to communicate."

"That in itself may not be a fault, but when it extends into dishonesty you have a problem."

"But where's the line between concealing the truth and being dishonest? Don't they make you tell the _whole_ truth in court?"

"If you tried to tell the whole truth in everyday conversation, it would get tiresome. You'd start reciting true facts about Asia or geometry."

"The whole _pertinent_ truth, then?"

"That would also be difficult, unless you were unusually detail-oriented."

"Well, then shall we say that the difference is in the intent? Dishonesty is either telling a direct lie, or intentionally refusing to tell what could be helpful."

"But could you conceal potentially helpful truths without the intent of dishonesty? What if the potential for harm was equal or greater than the potential for help?"

"But how can you judge that?"

"How can we judge anything? We have to do the best we can and assume that others will do the same."

"So you're saying the only thing we can do is just have good intentions and hope that everybody else will see them as such? You know what they say about good intentions."

"Would you rather we had bad intentions? And aren't our intentions the only things we can really control?"

"Our intentions and our judgement."

"Granted, but which should take precedence? Where do you live?" he asked, unexpectedly. They'd fallen into a debate again, and this question surprised her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your house. Where is it?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, because it would be helpful in this instance for you not to conceal this truth, unless of course you want me to drop you off in the middle of the town square?"

She shook herself back into her surroundings. He had picked her up and was driving her home, and she wanted to get home into her robe and pyjamas and have some of that terrible soup. The car circled a roundabout while he waited for her answer.

"Oh, sorry. Turn right here. I live at the end of this street."

He pulled up to the curb and unlocked the doors. She opened the door and scrambled out.

"Thanks, by the way," she said just before she closed it. "For the ride."

He smiled at her. "My pleasure, Austen." She caught her breath. The way he said it…No, no, she had to be wrong. It sounded like…

_Her name was Belle_.

* * *

"So, in other words, you're saying the problem _isn't_ that there was a girl who committed suicide?"

Annabel and her sister sat cross-legged on Austen's bed, discussing the events of the day. Annabel often instinctively understood Austen's need to talk, and when Austen blew in that night, damp clothes clinging to her and face creased up in the effort of thought, Annabel took one look at her and put the tea kettle on, ready for a long, long conversation.

Austen told everything, from the teacup to Ruby's whispered secrets to Mr Gold's confession and Rich's reaction. And after she'd told her everything, she burst out with "But all that's not the problem!" Annabel gave her an uncomprehending look.

"Well, of course that's a problem, but the real problem _comes_ from that, because the real problem is that I…I see what she saw in the guy!"

"Which one? Mr Gold or Rich?"

"Rich! I'm seeing why she fell for him! He's handsome and smart and he picked me up and gave me a ride when he didn't have to!"

"Yeah, but I think the whole drove someone to suicide thing counterbalances all that."

"I guess. I mean, yes, of course it does! But he wouldn't drive _me_ to suicide. I mean, the only reason he did that to her was because Mr Gold liked her. But, oh my God. Mr Gold never tells anybody anything, and he told me his entire life story. What if he likes _me_? What if Rich picked up on that? He never noticed me until I got that job offer! What if…? You should have seen the look on his face when he talked about her, Annabel. It was like he was describing an angel."

"Rich?"

"No, Mr Gold. And he treats this old broken mug like it's made out of pure diamond, because it belonged to her. I've never met a man who would care for a woman like that. To find him in Mr Gold, of all people! He's always so…confident, you know?"

"Wait, so I'm confused. You're falling for Mr Gold because he fell for some other girl, but you're falling for Rich too?"

"I'm not falling for Mr Gold. I mean I don't think so. Come on, Annie, he's like fifty. And I'm not…I mean, I'm trying really hard not to fall for Rich. But he's…"

"Handsome, smart, thoughtful. I get it: perfect."

"He drove someone to suicide just because he didn't like her boyfriend!" Austen wailed. "He's _not_ perfect! And he's arrogant, and stubborn, and rude…"

"And smarter than you are, and he didn't accept your apology when you smashed into him at the diner. Has it ever occurred to you that you believe this whole Mr Gold drama because you _want_ to? Because you're mad at Rich for being perfect and ignoring you?"

"Annie, you didn't see Mr Gold, or hear his voice when he said her name. I _know_ that it's true. And he's _not_ perfect."

"Mr Gold or Rich?"

"Rich."

"No, of course he's not. But you're falling for him anyway. Maybe you just need to take a step back; not spend as much time with him. Or, conversely, stop spending time with Mr Gold and see if Rich starts ignoring you again. Either way, I think it's more to the point whether he hurt that girl than it is whether he'd ever hurt you."

"It's not like I intentionally spend time with him!"

"Rich…?"

"Hell, I don't know! They're getting all mixed up! Either of them. Mr Gold I work for, and Rich just keeps showing up. Like tonight! I mean, what are the odds that he'd be out there right at the same time I was? And then when he does show up, he doesn't leave, and then I don't…I don't…want him to."

"You're killing yourself over a pair of pretty brown eyes, Aussie."

"It's not just the way he looks! I mean, he's nice to look at. But ever since I _saw_ him, there's been this…I can't explain it. It doesn't have anything to do with the way he looks, really it doesn't. I never believed in love at first sight; I still don't. You can't love someone you don't know."

"And I don't think you _should_ love someone you don't trust. Take my advice: stay away from him as much as you can."

Austen sighed and wrapped her arms tightly around her knees. "You're probably right. I can try, anyway. You know, I think of myself as so brilliant, but you're the practical person around here, aren't you? Why on earth did I run out into the rain when you were sitting here just _waiting_ to be talked at?" she teased.

"You've never really appreciated me, that's why. Anything else you want to talk about while I'm here?"

"Um…oh! Red top or green t-shirt with my new blue jeans tomorrow?"

Annabel laughed and stood up. "Red top, definitely. Red brings out your colour."


	22. Chapter 22: Double Date

Austen began to realise that she hadn't been paying nearly as much attention to her beloved older sister as she should have.

Annabel had always been the pretty one of the family, with blonde hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes. She was sensible and spent a lot of time on the people she cared about. Recently, she'd met a guy, and they'd hit it off and gone out several times. Annabel was much better at talking about other people's feelings than her own, but Austen could see from a mile away that her sister really liked this guy.

His name was Andrew Cash. Austen had only met him a few times, but cursory examination showed him to be handsome, reasonably smart, and super nice. He was exactly Annabel's age and had a solid, well-paying job. If it had been Austen, she would have thought him a little transparent, but Annabel appreciated honesty more than anything and would immediately call you out if you were trying to lie to her or to yourself. She told Austen sometimes that Andrew was "refreshing" because she didn't have to call him on _anything_, ever. Every nice or generous thing he said, every kind action, proceeded purely from his own generous nature.

Austen thoroughly approved of him, but she'd been so caught up in her new job and thinking about Rich Doyle that she hadn't put much effort into getting to know him. Now, though, she noticed that Annabel, while as flippant as ever, had begun spending more and more of her free time with him, and almost unconsciously brought him up in conversation. These subtle but noticeable signals told Austen that her sister was falling pretty hard.

The morning after being shuttled home by Rich, Austen woke up early and treated herself to a leisurely breakfast of cold tea, whole grain toast, scrambled eggs with cheese added as an early-bird reward, half a piece of bacon, and a leftover pancake from a few days ago that looked lonely in the fridge all by itself. They didn't have any butter and Austen hated margarine, so she put peanut butter on the toast and ate the pancake plain.

Annabel, a morning person, came down the stairs just as she put her dishes in the sink. "Well, look who's up and about!" she teased. "Work today?"

"Yeah, in an hour or so. I might take a walk first, to soothe away all the emotional trauma of yesterday."

"Oh, hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you a question; I forgot yesterday. Andrew and I were going out tonight, but then he realised he'd double-booked and had already made plans with a friend of his. He asked if you would like to come and make it a double date."

Austen gave her a look. "As if I need _more_ guys to confuse my life?"

"Well, obviously you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I don't mind. Wow, I've never been on a blind date before, unless you count the time Ruby blindfolded me and took me to the club. What's his name?"

"Dunno. Apparently he and Andrew have been friends since they were born or something."

"Well, if he's Andrew's friend, I have a good chance of at least tolerating him." She smiled and put on her coat. "Now for that walk. Oh, I made you a piece of bacon, and there's maybe half a cup of tea left. What's my plan of attack if, by some ill-conceived miracle, Rich happens to be taking a walk at the exact same time?"

"You cross the street and pretend you don't see him. He seems shy enough not to press it."

"Here's hoping."

* * *

She twirled in front of her mirror experimentally. She looked…well, nice. She felt pretty. She rarely felt pretty; girls rarely do. But her hair felt like behaving, and the navy blue dress worked for her and the dark lipstick matched and the white accents set everything off, and all was right with the world.

Annabel entered, and Austen stopped twirling. "Oh, and I was feeling so pretty just a second ago," she complained, surveying her sister's short yellow sweater dress with matching pumps. She looked curvy and long-legged and inviting, while Austen just looked…pretty.

"You _are_, you silly. Wow, that's some dress."

"It's kind of formal, isn't it? Do you think it's too formal?" she asked, probably over-hastily.

"No, I don't. It's very pretty. But…" She gave Austen a half suspicious look. "I've never seen it before. Did you go out and buy it today?"

"Yeah. Yes. I had some extra cash, so I…"

"Austen, you don't have enough money to buy butter. I mean, I know Mr Gold's been paying you pretty well, but you've been saving religiously. Did he give you a bonus and you went and bought a dress? No, hang on; if he'd given you money, you would have put it in the bank, so that means…oh, my God, he gave you the dress, didn't he? Please tell me it didn't belong to his dead girlfriend."

Austen's face by now was burnt red. "No, of course not! He bought it for me."

"He bought you a dress?"

"Well, I said I was going on a date, and I was sort of thinking out loud and wondering what I could wear, and he put on his coat and told me to come with him and that he was going to buy me an outfit. Of course I said that wasn't necessary, but he said that I could either go with him to pick it out or he'd go on his own and buy me one. I said I wouldn't accept it and he said he'd dock my paycheck and then _I_ said…"

"Okay, okay, I get it. He insisted. Just make sure he's not getting any ideas. I mean, there are some times when it's okay to accept something from a guy…"

"Yeah, I know, I know; next time, I'll just let him fire me. The problem, though, is that he actually might."

She put on her coat. For the first time, there was something she didn't tell her sister; something she wanted to keep to herself to think about.

When she came out of the dressing room in the outfit to get a man's opinion, he was looking at a rack of ties and fingering a dark crimson one. When she said his name, he turned and looked at her; his eyes widened in evident pleasure. "Beautiful!" he said, and told her to spin.

She spun in the dress once, but tripped over her own feet and started to fall—until, just like in the movies, he reached out and caught her with the arm not holding the cane. The dress had a low back. She could feel his hand, surprisingly warm, against the bare skin; his lips were so close that she felt his breath on her face. He held her for just a second, his eyes on her upturned face, before smiling slightly and righting her.

"I think we have a winner," he said. "It's just right."

* * *

The restaurant impressed Austen as absolutely and completely different in every way from Granny's. Silk tablecloths, knee-deep carpet, chandeliers, and gilt wood replaced the booths, tables, concrete, and vaguely retro vibe. She had a sneaking suspicion a request for a hamburger would meet with only cold stares and maybe a terse negative. In a way, the fact that she wore a two hundred dollar dress relieved her somewhat.

"Hi, we're here with the Cash party?" Annabel said, displaying her dazzling teeth in a friendly smile.

The server nodded and smiled back. He couldn't help it. Austen had often noticed that men tended to fall all over themselves and everything else in order to comply with her sister's slightest whim. She, on the other hand, was fairly certain she'd have to be at least bleeding before she'd elicit anything more than a faintly appreciative look.

The server led them across the room to a table where two men sat, backs to them. As they approached, the girls heard the last few sentences of a conversation.

"…still don't think this is a good idea."

"Look, she's really pretty and seems smart. I think you'll like her."

"The last girl you said I would like was…"

"This girl's not like that, I promise."

"Andrew?"

Andrew looked up and grinned. He nudged his friend, and the other man sighed and they both stood up. Austen had to repress a scream.

"Rich? _You're_ Andrew's friend?" Austen demanded.

"And _you're_ Annabel's sister?" he asked, seeming just as surprised as she was. "Well…that's something of a relief."

"What? What do you mean?"

Rich grinned. Had he ever done that before? How had she never noticed his practically flawless teeth? He was wearing a dark blue shirt with the top button undone, black suit jacket, and no tie. His dark curls had just been washed and were faintly damp. He came around the table and pulled out her chair for her, still smiling; she _could not_ repress her heart skipping at least one, maybe two beats.

"You guys know each other?" Andrew asked, looking pleased. "Hey, great! See, I told you, Rich." He pulled out Annabel's chair for her too, but Austen detected just the faintest hint of copycatting.

"Um, yeah, great. Could you guys…? Could you hang on just a second?" Austen took Annabel's arm and dragged her a few feet away.

"So much for crossing the street and pretending not to see him!"

"I didn't know, Austen, I promise."

"Do you think I could go to the bathroom and sneak out the window?"

"No, Austen. You are going to go back to that table and be polite, mature, and very, very distant."

"Right. And that's going to last…?"

"By my estimate, two minutes."

"And _then_ I can sneak out the bathroom window?"

"No, Austen."

Annabel led her back to the table, where the two men, still standing by their chairs, had started a conversation about mutual funds. Rich, clearly the more experienced investor, was lecturing.

"I only know one thing about investing," said Austen, trying to sound casual and keep her eyes on Andrew. "'Never invest in anything you don't understand.'" After an approving and slightly surprised silence, she added: "Thank you, Dave Ramsey."

Everyone laughed, even Rich, as the women slipped into their chairs. "While I recognise that as flippancy, I'd also say it's true," Rich said, seating himself. "And not only of investing, of everything in life. Investments, purchases, relationships. Any venture should be fully understood, or at least understood to the best of your ability, before you attempt to embark on it."

"Oh I have to disagree with that last one," Austen said, removing her coat and hanging it on the back of her chair. "I think sometimes, with things like relationships, you get something that you don't really understand, and you have to dive in, to explore it. I mean, how are you going to ever really understand if you don't?"

"But isn't that how heartbreak happens? You dive in without looking and then get painful surprises."

"I could never be in a relationship with a man or with anyone I fully understood. It would get boring really fast."

"But there are certain things, I suppose, that you would have to know about them before even attempting such a venture."

"Of course, but I would say that…" She quickly realised what she was doing. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't be talking so much."

He looked surprised. "No, indeed! I'd like to hear what you have to say."

"Well, but…they wouldn't," she said, gesturing to Andrew and Annabel, who looked on politely.

"Well, you're my date, not theirs. Please, continue."

_My date_. She had to bite her lip. His eyes…were they _dancing_? His beautiful brown eyes were _dancing_. The blue of his shirt made his skin glow. He even leaned forward ever so slightly to listen to her. Despite Annabel's warning glances, she mentally threw up her hands in defeat. To hell with it.

She started to talk, and he listened. Then he talked, and she listened. They parried, they bantered, they debated. It was like a dance. How had she never noticed before that this game they played, this arguing game, was like a dance? Annabel and Andrew quickly got onto their own topic and became so enveloped in each other that the outside world disappeared in a blissful haze, and it took all of Austen's concentration to keep from putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, like Annabel was doing, letting herself start to fall…

No. This man had done terrible things. Of course he was charming and beautiful; how could Belle have fallen for him if he wasn't?

_Just think of Mr Gold's face. Think of his face when he talked about her, his anger at this man who's sitting there talking about classic literature so familiarly. Think of…think of his hands on your back this afternoon, when he held you just a split second longer than he had to…_

Try as she might, this quiet, calculating, sometimes almost emotionless man, with his stubborn streak and his arrogance, began to draw her into his circle, under his spell.

* * *

_I have never, will never, see a more beautiful thing than the one sitting in front of me._

This logically deduced conclusion sprang to his mind after many long minutes of calculating. The dress—just the right shade of blue to bring out the almost-blue lights in her dark hair; the eye shadow—emphasised those remarkable, sparkling eyes, the most dazzling feature in her pixyish face; the hair—ringlets upon ringlets, free of any binding except a white hair clip on one side, and the asymmetry gave a pleasing effect. She must of course feel him staring. When she stood to go wash her hands shortly before the food came and he saw all of her subtle curves encased in the deep blue dress, his eyes certainly followed her all the way out of the room.

The other girl, he supposed, looked very nice: clearly carefully arranged hair, sensible makeup, and yellow looked good on her. But Rich had never cared for blondes; he found them colourless. Actually, he'd never cared much for any sort of appearance. He'd certainly never found himself as attracted to anyone as he was to Austen.

She played with his words, with his carefully constructed arguments, as if they were nothing more than toys. He thought and studied his way through their discussions; she danced. His logic and analysis met with her quick wit and sometimes they won, but sometimes they lost, too. He had to be on his toes, to think, all the time when she was around. His brain shifted up to a gear he'd rarely had to engage, even in college.

Rich logically connected these facts about her as best he could, but as soon as he had them in some sort of intelligible lump, she would look at him and they would scatter again. He thought he'd had it all figured out that day when he'd gone walking at the beach, and then the sight of her, cold and wet and helpless, had sent him back to square one; it annoyed him that analysis broke down in her presence, but at the same time fascinated him.

He scarcely knew what he ordered, and when it came, he forgot to eat it. Had he been noticing her plate instead of herself, he would have seen that she ate less than he did. Annabel and Andrew ate on, but the others, engaged in trying to understand and in trying not to understand, left theirs untouched. It didn't seem important.

* * *

"So distant and polite worked out really well," Austen said, slumping back in her seat.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean I just spent the last two hours throwing myself at him. Weren't you paying attention?"

Annabel grinned. "Not really, sorry. Why did you throw yourself at him? You're the one who insists he's so terrible."

"He _is_, but he's also…I've never met anyone like him; he really _thinks_ about things and doesn't just blurt out whatever comes into his head. I can't blame Belle for falling for him."

"But you've admitted that you don't trust him."

"Do you have to trust someone to fall in love with them?"

"Austen!"

"I know, I know." She buried her face in her hands. "What am I going to do? I'm miserable. I am never going to forgive you for this, ever."

"What if I promise to ascertain the name, romantic history, and committing-suicide-over potential of any man I set you up with in future?"

"I'd feel a whole lot better if you promised never to set me up with anyone ever again."

"What about that Colin guy who used to follow you around when you worked at the diner?"

"Oh, my God. I'm so glad I don't have to deal with him anymore."

"No, now you just have to deal with the mysteriously attractive and much older Mr Gold."

"Mysteriously attractive? Where on _earth_ are you getting that?"

"I can read between the lines, Aussie. Anyway, he is. The man can wear a suit."

"He's also fifty years old! He walks with a cane, for Pete's sake! His hair is graying! Why do you keep trying to get me interested in him?"

Annabel shrugged. "I'm pretty sure he likes you. Like you said, he told you his life story and he never tells anyone anything. And I can see that you're attracted to him; you've always had this thing for older men. Remember when you were so infatuated with Colin Firth? He's in his fifties."

"Well, Miss, as long as we're talking about attraction and infatuation, why don't we talk about a certain bright-eyed young man who spent the entire evening making googly eyes at a certain blonde?"

Annabel laughed. "All right. We can change the subject."


	23. Chapter 23: Unavoidable?

There was absolutely no getting away from him. Maybe he was stalking her. Maybe she was subconsciously stalking him. Whatever it was, wherever she went, she ran into him, and they _always_ started talking. Sometimes they only talked for a few minutes before rushing off to previous engagements, but several times they had to be forcibly dragged apart after an hour.

Once, they ran into each other in Granny's at two in the afternoon and somehow started an argument about situational ethics which, her having done her work that morning and it being his day off, lasted through lunch, dinner, fifteen cups of coffee between them, and until the diner finally closed at midnight. Of course, it didn't stay on situational ethics. It continued to literature, moved on to various celebrities, touched lightly on previous arguments, and detoured into world travel before winding up at traditional education.

The most troubling thing of all was that they weren't arguing all the time anymore. Sometimes they just _talked_, about art or literature or whatever: the list of topics stretched on endlessly. She found herself forgetting everything: time, space, other people, even his romantic history. Of course, when he left she remembered it _all_, and hated herself.

Mr Gold…she spent nearly as much time with him; he was almost always in his shop now, taking inventory or cleaning something or doing paperwork. Something about the man intrigued her. He treated her almost gently, often doing or saying things, little things, to make her feel better if she was bored or angry or restless. It was as if he knew her every mood and how to temper it. She wondered if all this was because she reminded him of his lost Belle; when she thought that, or when she heard Mr Gold humming that little tune in spite of all his care, she burned in anger against Rich Doyle and made fresh determinations to never speak to him again.

In addition, she began to notice that Mr Gold could, indeed, wear a suit.

* * *

"Hey!"

Austen stiffened and steeled herself. She'd been expecting it, but still…

She turned. He stood about thirty feet away, hands in his pockets.

"Okay, seriously, are you _following_ me?" she shouted.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing!"

"What could you _possibly_ be doing here?"

"What?"

"_What are you doing here_?"

"I always come here! I've never seen you here before! What are you doing here?"

_Trying to avoid you_. Maybe I should say that. Maybe I should tell the truth. Maybe it'll make him go away.

"Trying to…trying to think!" she shouted. "It's…not working."

"Something wrong?"

"No, I guess I just need to be around people to think."

"Do I count?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. "Yeah. Come on."

Austen heard his footsteps padding across the sand, but they stopped before reaching her. She opened her eyes and looked at him; he stood several feet away, looking out over the ocean.

"What are you doing now?"

"Look there." He pointed to the horizon. "Do you see those ships? I've been watching them for years. You can just barely see them. None of them ever come in. There's a dock over there, and another one over there, but no ship ever comes closer than…that blue one is right now. You can never read the names or see the people. It's as though there's an invisible line keeping them from coming in."

She shrugged. "Maybe nobody's bringing anything here right now."

He shook his head. "I spent a week here once when I needed to get some work done; not a single ship docked. I've been here at all times of the day and night, all days of the week. I have never once seen a ship dock here, or leave here."

"What about that boat there?"

"It's always there; it's Leroy's. I've often wondered why we seem to be so isolated."

"I'd imagine you like being isolated," she muttered.

He smiled. "I do, sometimes. Although I've been…" He trailed off.

"You've been?"

Somehow, the fact that he started blushing surprised her. She involuntarily took a step toward him. "What? What have you been?"

"I've been contemplating the interconnectedness of each member of the human race," he said.

"That's highly unusual. Aren't you the Ayn Rand advocate who believes that each person should work as much for their own benefit as possible?"

"In a sense. But the benefit of others can be your own benefit at times, don't you think?"

"But what if it isn't? What if what's best for someone else is completely antithetical to whatever it is that's good for you? Is it more important to do what's good for yourself or what's good for the other person? I mean, either way, you'd only be helping one person."

"I think we need to define some terms," he said. He looked suddenly more comfortable; they were debating again. "How do you define benefit? Sometimes, the sense of self-sacrifice…"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I don't think we need to be doing this right now."

He looked surprised, but he nodded.

They started to walk down the beach, looking at the boats and at the sun floating just about the horizon.

"So, what are you really doing here?" she asked after a while. The little wooden castle was disappearing behind them.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you come here so often? Just to think?"

"Pretty much. I…remember the day I picked you up? I was here. I like to be alone when I think. You…you're obviously different. I've noticed you tend to be more energetic when a lot of people are around."

"Well, sometimes just one person is enough."

"And sometimes, one person isn't too many."

That made her smile in spite of herself. "So you really haven't been following me? I've literally seen you every single day for at least a couple of weeks now."

"No, I haven't been following you. If I had, don't you think I'd be a little more discreet about it?"

"So, what is it then? Fate? Destiny? Some malicious little chance-encounter god?"

"Malicious?"

"Oh, well…I mean…" Now was the time, if she wanted him to stop talking, to go away, to leave her alone, to let her be angry with him instead of this head-spinning fascination. Her tongue caught in her throat and she couldn't say anything.

He stopped walking and studied her, a little crease in between his eyebrows. She could see his brain spinning, recalculating. _She doesn't enjoy these encounters. She'd rather not see me. She just needs someone to talk to; she's not pleased to see_ me…

"You don't have to speak to me, you know," he said, slowly, as his brain worked this out. "Even if we meet by chance, you don't have to…"

"Rich, no! That's…that's not what I meant! I…"

"I don't need you to be polite to me," he said. "If you'd rather not talk to me, please tell me so."

She couldn't look at him. She couldn't say anything. She tried desperately to swallow the lump in her throat, but was afraid she would also swallow her tongue…

Rich reached out and grabbed her shoulders, turning her toward him. "Austen, will you look at…"

They realised at the same time that he was holding her. He'd never touched her before, never so much as laid a finger on her; he'd never had occasion to. She wore a tank top, and his hands felt warm against her bare shoulders; he had a firm, masterful grip. She lifted her eyes to his face and they stared at each other for a long minute.

Then he kissed her.

The kiss had no hesitation, no uncertainty. He just bent his head and not at all gently pressed his mouth against hers. It knocked the air out of her lungs. It sent all the blood rushing out of her head and her heart beating like a jackhammer. On instinct, she closed her eyes and ran her hands over the back of her neck and laced her fingers through his soft hair. He smelled like cologne. He tasted like salt. His skin felt wonderfully warm and smooth, and as he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close to him she felt the strength there...

Austen suddenly realised what she was doing. Her eyes flew open. She pushed away from him, gasping for air.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have..."

She covered her mouth with her hand and began to run.

"Wait! Wait, Austen!" He ran after her, but she was _good_ at running, and he was good at numbers and investments and sitting at a computer.

She collapsed into her car, breathing heavily. She didn't cry. She set her teeth and tried to breathe.

* * *

"Austen, I have an errand for you."

"An errand?" Austen asked in surprise, looking up at Mr Gold from the pages of _White Fang_. "You've never sent me on an errand before."

"Well, I am now. I think a package has come in at the post office, but my leg hurts terribly today. Would you mind…?"

"No, of course not. Now?"

"Any time, but I would like to have it."

"What happened to your leg, anyway?" she asked, putting down her book and getting her coat. "You never told me that."

"You have a rather annoying penchant for asking questions, Austen."

"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about."

"I tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Go to fetch my package and I'll tell you when you get back, if you truly want to hear it. It's not very pretty."

_What was he saying? This wasn't part of the plan, this was never part of the plan; it would never do. He could have hit himself, but it was like he couldn't help it. She was so much like her; just like that young man was so much like himself. If she had blue eyes instead of brown, it would be worse, but even as it was…_

"I'm surprised you trust me to come back," she teased. "You know there's an ice cream shop between here and there." She buttoned up her coat and tucked _White Fang_ in the pocket.

Before he could stop the words, they came out: "Oh, no. I expect I'll never see you again."

She laughed.

No one could have read his struggle with himself on his serious face as he tried to right his mistake. "But logically speaking, seeing as you've been working here three weeks and haven't been lured off by the ice cream shop yet, I think your chances of vanishing like the fairy you so much resemble are slim."

"Logically speaking? You sound like…" She stopped and blushed. "When should I be back?"

"As soon as possible, please; I have an engagement to sell some of my land later this evening."

"Oh? Who to?"

"There are those questions again."

"Will you tell me _that_, too, if I go get your package?"

"Sorry, dearie. Changing deals isn't what I do." _Normally._

She smiled at him. "Okay, you keep your secrets. Really, you're just like…" She bit her lip. "Well, I'll go get that package now. Don't forget your end of the deal: you've got a story to tell when I get back."

Austen came out of the post office without a package; apparently Mr Gold had been mistaken about its coming. She'd kept a sharp lookout for Rich, her determination to cross the street and ignore him stronger than ever, but so far the malicious chance-meeting god had been otherwise engaged. As she left the post office, though, she heard that all-too-familiar voice.

"Do you truly want my opinion, Andrew?"

"Of course I do," said Andrew Cash's voice. They were around the corner. Austen plastered herself against the wall, hoping not to be seen as they walked by, but they appeared to be staying around the corner.

"I don't think she likes you as much as you like her."

"What…what makes you say that?"

"She…seemed to sort of despise you. The things she said, the way she acted. She seemed flippant. Please understand these are my initial impressions after only having met her briefly; I would need more data to make an accurate assessment."

"Go on. Specifically, what do you mean?"

"Well, you mentioned some of your favourite pastimes, and you remember she made fun of them. It doesn't seem as though she respects you."

"But she keeps on going out with me," Andrew protested, a little hopefully.

"Have you considered her position? That family has very little money. She works extremely hard and so does her sister, and they still have difficulty living. You, on the other hand, have a certain amount of money and a great deal of potential to make more, and you show interest in her."

"You think she's dating me for my money?"

"I don't know. I wasn't paying enough attention to you to form a well founded hypothesis."

"Oh, quit with the hypothesising and the logic and whatever. I want to know what you think."

"I think it's possible. Just be careful, Andrew."

"You don't know how much I appreciate this, Rich. I've gotta go, but thanks so much."

She heard footsteps leaving. Fuming, she stepped out into the street, ready to go back to the antique shop and smash something. She ran headlong into Rich.


	24. Chapter 24: In Vain Have I Struggled

"Austen! Thank God. I was just on my way to the shop. I need to talk to you."

"How could you _possibly_ come to those conclusions?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What you told Andrew. How could you even _think_ that? Can't you see how much my sister _likes_ him? You think she's after him for his _money_?" She was shouting by now, her face bright red.

"He asked for my opinion, and based on my observations I…"

"He doesn't care that it's not sound or logical! He has no use for logic. Now he thinks my sister is some gold-digger or something! My _sister_!"

"Austen, I don't know your sister very well. Obviously, you do, so you probably know better than I do what she feels. But Andrew asked for my opinion, and I gave it to him. But none of that's important; I have to say something. Please listen to me."

"Are you going to grab me again? Make me…? I could have you arrested. I bet you have been following me!"

"I won't, and I haven't, but I need you to listen, just for a minute. I only did what I did because I can't talk."

"Oh, yes, you can talk. You can say all kinds of things! About all kinds of subjects, including people you've barely met!"

"Not about my feelings! You don't understand. You always talk about your feelings and your thoughts; I can't. I can talk about all kinds of things when they're not personal or important! When I feel something I can't express it in words, especially if I don't even understand it. I had to do something to _show_ you how I felt."

"You had no _right_ to do that."

"I understand that you're angry, and I'm sorry. I'll never touch you again, unless…"

"Unless? Why is there an 'unless'?"

"Unless you let me."

She couldn't say anything for a minute. Angry words rose to her throat and choked her.

"Can I try and talk to you about it instead?" he asked when she remained silent.

"What is it?" she managed finally.

"You…I…" He took a deep breath and began to try to explain. "For as long as I can remember, I've noticed you. I guess you would say I've been attracted to you. I never said anything because I couldn't think of anything to say, but I would see you and think how pretty you were; how much of a contrast to the other girl with the exaggerated features and too much makeup. You have such lovely eyes. I used to see you reading secretly when you should have been on duty, and I wanted to ask you what you were reading. I used to wonder what I found so compelling about a _hotel maid_, of all things, when I could have had almost anybody, but it was always you; I kept thinking about you and wondering what kind of person you were.

"When I found out you were intelligent, I was surprised at first, because I don't expect attractive people to be smart. But the more I got to know you, the more we talked, I started to realise…you're wonderful. I want to be with you. I want to talk to you like we've been talking for these past few days; I want to know you and who you are. I don't care where you work or what your friends are like or how much money you have or what your background is. Maybe I should, but I don't.

"I've spent a lot of time thinking about this. I don't understand it. I can't understand why I want you so much, why I think about you all the time, why you're so special to me. I don't understand why my heart speeds up when I see you, even when I know we're going to be talking about coal mining or isolationism. But I do, and you are, and it does. I think…Austen, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

He stopped and looked at her, his eyes bright and his hands trembling, as if he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her again. She threw back her head and met his gaze fearlessly, angrily.

"I don't care."

"What?"

"I could not possibly care less about how you feel or what you want. I know I'm supposed to feel grateful or sorry or whatever, but right now? Right now, I am pissed as _hell_. How dare you? You practically murdered a girl because you didn't like the guy who loved her, and now you might have broken up my sister and her boyfriend. You _destroy_ love, and now you have the gall to come and ask for it?"

"Hang on! Murdered someone?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Mr Gold was in love with her, and you hated him so much that you made her in love with you and then dumped her. You treated her like _dirt_, and then forget all about her, and now you expect me to want you?"

"So you believe what Mr Gold says? That sneaking, manipulative bastard?"

"He _loved_ her! And you just couldn't resist making him _miserable_."

"I don't know what…"

"And as if that weren't bad enough," she went on, ignoring him, "in the same breath you tell me you love me and then you insult my friends and my background and my job and even me personally?"

"Insult…?"

"You _can't understand_ why you're attracted to me? It's not _logical_, right? Why on _earth_ would _anyone_ ever want _me_, especially someone who _could have anybody_? I just want you to know that you _can't_ have _anybody_, because you can't have me. I will never love you."

"I was being honest. I told you how I felt, what I thought. Should I have just pretended that all this makes sense? Would that have made you _feel_ better?" He said the word _feel_ with a sneer. "Maybe you wouldn't hate me so much if I had just lied a little bit and petted your vanity."

She'd stopped shouting. Now she looked him straight in the eye and spoke evenly and quietly. "Nothing could possibly make me hate you any less, Rich. All your _honesty_ did was made me realise that I didn't have to worry about hurting your feelings; you don't have any decent feelings that can be hurt."

Rich looked like she remembered him looking that day at the diner when she had spilled coffee on him: complete and utter revulsion contorting every feature. The affection in his eyes had faded, and now his disgusted face showed exactly how much he thought of the hotel maid who trusted a manipulative bastard. Without another word, he turned and walked away.

* * *

The bell jangled, and Mr Gold looked up. Austen walked through, shrugging out of her coat. Her eyes blazed. "Oh, you're back already," he said. "Good. Er, good thing. I need to leave."

"The package wasn't there," she said. "Sorry."

"Encounter any interesting distractions to keep you away?" he asked lightly, but he watched her reaction with care.

"No. Nothing interesting happened at all."

He smiled to himself. "Not even the ice cream shop?"

"It's closed."

"Are you all right, Austen? You seem…laconic."

"I'm fine. You need to go mysteriously sell your land to some mysterious person. Oh, hey, no, wait a second. You promised to tell me a story!" She smiled suddenly and came forward. "That was the deal!"

"Well, you didn't bring me the package, dear. _That_ was the deal."

"Oh, no you don't. You said go _to_ fetch the package, and when I came back, you would tell me a story. I went _to_ fetch the package, and now here I am, ready for a story. The fact that it wasn't in makes no difference."

"I thought I was supposed to be the prevaricator," he said. He saw the glint in her eye; Austen was out for blood.

She perched on the counter and met his gaze squarely. "So, spill. Your leg."

"I really must be going…"

"Your acquisition of huge amounts of money can wait five minutes. Don't think you can get out of this so easily; I can take you down if necessary."

This threat amused him greatly. She really looked as though she were ready to kill something, but the idea of this little pixy wrestling down the all-powerful Dark One seemed ludicrous. Still, it _had_ been years since a woman had been able to toy with a deal like this.

"It was a war," he said, out of excuses. "I was drafted. Just before we went into battle, I found out my wife was pregnant. I grew up without a father, and I didn't want that for my child; when I discovered that injured soldiers were sent home, I shattered my own shin rather than leave him to that."

"And you couldn't get it repaired later? After the war was over?"

"I never wanted to. It reminds me of the man I was and will never be again."

"I didn't even know you'd been married. Was it…was it Belle?"

"No, no. It was a long time ago."

"Where is she? What happened? What about the baby?"

He smiled. "I promised you the answer to one question, Austen, and I've answered three. I think it's more than fair."

"But…"

"If you'll excuse me, dear, I believe I'll be late."

"Wait. Wait." She reached out and touched his arm as he walked past. "Please don't go right now. Please. I need someone to talk to. I need to be distracted. I don't care if you talk about your wife or the war or, hell, you can talk about Chinese socioeconomics, for all I care, but please don't leave me alone right now. I think…I think I'll go crazy."

Mr Gold paused and looked at her. Did he really need to go out tonight? Well, yes he did. But he found that, irritating as it was, he couldn't ignore this girl. She loved books. She was expressive and intuitive. She even looked a little like…

It would make Regina angry to put this off. _That_ would be worth it. Her cell phone would be turned off: he would call it and leave a voicemail telling her that he wouldn't be there. She would go out to make the payment, find he wasn't there, wait a while, and finally pull out her phone to call him, whereupon she would get the voicemail. She would try calling him back, but this time _his_ phone would be off, and she would be forced to make the call tomorrow, in the office, where both he and she knew Emma had planted her bug.

His mind finished calculating, and he nodded. "Give me a moment, dear; I have to make a call."

When he came back, he found her twirling a pen and staring hard at the wall.

"I believe I'll close the shop. Do you mind?"

"No," she said. Clearly she wasn't paying attention, or she would have reminded him about the Mace.

_Closing the shop_ consisted of turning the "Open" sign around so that it read "Closed". Not, he thought, that it ever really worked. No one ever woke up in the middle of the night realising they desperately needed an antique ebony globe, and if they wanted to talk to _him_ badly enough to come in the middle of the night, no cardboard sign was going to stop them.

"Now then," he said, "you wanted to talk."

She hopped down off the counter and began to wander around the cramped little shop, playing with trinkets and pushing buttons. "I just need…I don't want to talk to my sister, but I need to talk to _somebody_. I can't deal with this. I can't do it. This whole thing is…is…insane. I don't even know how I feel or who I am or…"

"Hold on, hold on, slow down. Why don't you tell me what happened first?" She looked at him helplessly, so he began to deduce. "Now, when you came in, you looked very upset, and you don't want to be alone. Something very serious has happened, because generally you're content enough to be left alone. In times of severe stress, however, or when you need to think, you become rather…"

"Clingy?"

"Let's say unfocussed and lonely. You were not terribly stressed when you left, although I did notice that you felt eager to distract yourself. Therefore, something must have happened while you were out. It only remains to be determined what that _something_ was. Clearly, it…"

"Do you have _any_ idea how much you sound like him right now? You're so _logical_. It's like, 'clearly, assuming these premises, the only conclusion is…' It's either maddeningly attractive or just maddening. Can't you ever allow for the possibility of _feeling_, of something that's _not_ logical? And then when you do, you despise it. You can't even acknowledge…"

"Are you talking to me right now, or to…may I venture a guess?"

"Go ahead."

"It has something to do with Richard Doyle, doesn't it?"

She raised her eyes and they began to fill with tears. Mr Gold thanked his lucky stars they were brown and not blue.

"I met him on the way back. I overheard a conversation he had with Andrew Cash about my sister, and he said such horrible things about her, and then he met me and he…he…"

_All right, this was always the plan. Don't get emotionally involved. Just go by the plan._

He reached out tentatively and rested his hand on her shoulder. "It's all right," he said. "Tell me." _Don't move too fast. Be gentle, supportive. Watch her for reactions._

"He told me he loved me," she sobbed. "He told me he loved me, and I said I didn't care. I said I hated him. I couldn't…I couldn't…I couldn't tell him…"

"That you love him?"

She choked. "I don't! I don't love him! I couldn't love him! After what he did to you, to her, I couldn't. I hate him! He's selfish and cruel and…"

"And…?"

"And I love him more than I've ever loved anything or anyone in my entire life!" she gasped. "I love him and I hate him and why did this have to be so complicated? I don't understand. I don't want to hurt you, but I…"

The older man took the girl in his arms, gently. She didn't pull away; she buried her face in his shirt and cried like a child. Her little body, wracked with sobs, felt warm and soft; curling against his body, she perfectly fit into the hollow of his torso; thick dark hair tickled his face and smelled like…

_I'm sorry, Belle. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. I truly do, and I've wanted to hold you like this since you left, and tell you that I'm sorry. I miss you so much, every day. I can't ever forget you. I want to forget; I have to forget, or this will haunt me until the end of time._

He ground his teeth. _Stop it! Stop it now! This isn't her. If you can stick to the plan, this will help you forget, you just have to stop thinking of her as Belle. Think of her as Belle, or as anything but a tool, and it'll all fall apart._

_Remember the sort of things she likes, but be discreet._

Mr Gold began to brush his hands through her hair, ever so softly, feeling the ringlets wrap around his fingers. "It's all right. It's all right," he murmured. _She used to like to be held onto; he never had to say anything when she was upset, only hold on. She understood what it meant._

_But there was something that used to please her. Her heart used to race, intriguing him._

He ran his hand down over her back, resting in the small, feeling the fabric of her shirt and the flesh under it, and the bumps of her spine and ribs. _Sure enough, he felt her pulse speed up, just as it used to do._ _That made him smile in spite of himself; he'd often wondered whether only her husband's hands would bring that response._

After a long while she stopped sobbing and just clung to him.

"Better?" he asked after a few minutes.

She nodded into his shoulder. "It still doesn't make any sense," she muttered.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He released her and held her at arm's length, looking into her eyes. Faking sincerity wasn't something he did often; occasionally he would _fake_ fake-sincerity, but everyone knew there was probably some ulterior motive buried there. For this, though, it was crucial that she believed him completely sympathetic.

"I'm sorry; I know how weird this is," she said, looking as if she would very much like to bury her face in his shoulder again. "I really don't…I don't want to be with him. He hurt you. I can't forgive that."

"Thank you. I know what it's like to want someone who…who you probably shouldn't, for one reason or another. Sometimes you feel as though you're drowning, don't you? And nothing makes any sense. It's worse when you have to see them every day, and it gets more and more confusing."

"I don't _have_ to see him every day, I just _have_ been, and then it's like I can't tear myself away. I don't think that'll be a problem, now, though." She sighed, but then she laughed rather shakily. "I can't believe I'm standing here telling _you_ all this. I think I've needed a good cry for a while."

"I want to help you any way I can. You're a remarkable young woman, Austen; I'd like to consider myself…well, your friend."

"I'm not remarkable, I'm just mixed up," she said. "But thank you. That means a lot. I'd like for you to be my friend."

She glanced at the clock then, and gulped in surprise. "Wow, it really is late, isn't it?"

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No, I came in my car. Anyway, I've had enough of riding in cars with attractive men for one week."

"Well, now, there it is."

"There what is?"

He touched her temple, just by her eye. "That sparkle; it's back. Good for you, dearie."

The young woman stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his weathered cheek. "I'll be back in tomorrow, and I'll try to check the touchy-feely at the door."

Long after the sound of her car motor had died away in the distance, Mr Gold stood in the middle of his shop, tracing the place on his cheek where she'd pressed her lips.

_Da_dee da, dee_da…_


	25. Chapter 25: Just a Blind

Mr Gold always remembered his dreams. He used to forget them, before Emma came to town, but since her presence and her magic had come, he recalled his old skill of lucid dreaming. The Dark One never got himself into a situation that he couldn't completely control.

This time, as usual, his dream involved Baelfire. He thought about Bae nearly constantly, so it never surprised him when his mind tried to fit Bae into his night visions too. Most nights, the dream also involved Belle, flitting through like a vision, always just out of reach, usually singing. Tonight Bae was clinging to his hand as the vortex sucked him in, and he determined that _this time_ he would hang on, but then he heard Belle's voice and let Bae fall screaming into the void. He scrambled up and looked wildly for Belle, but he only saw Austen, standing there with her head thrown back, her hands in the pocket of her jeans.

"Where's Belle?" he demanded. "Where is she?"

"You and your questions, Mr Gold," she said, her eyes dancing.

When he woke up, he began to analyse this dream. He'd spent the entire evening trying not to call Austen "Belle," so it was no wonder, really. He pieced it together quickly and easily; Bae, he always thought about, Belle nearly as often, and Austen had been prominent during that day.

He limped downstairs and began to fry himself some eggs. Still, the resemblance troubled him. The only reason he ever became acquainted with either of these people was to _forget_ Belle, and he thought of her every time he saw the girl.

As he finished the breakfast dishes, he heard a knock on the door. This surprised him. He had many acquaintances but very few friends—perhaps none whatsoever—and people rarely came to see him at his house. He limped out to the foyer and opened the door to…Austen.

"Miss O'Sullivan!"

"Hi, Mr Gold. I took a walk this morning, and I found myself here. I thought it was about the right time for you to head up to your shop and since my shift starts right away today I was wondering if you would like to walk together. Sorry about the sweats; I have another outfit in my bag."

"Well, I'm honoured that you would think of me, Austen. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea first?"

"That sounds great."

_All according to plan. Don't get emotionally involved._ He chatted lightly with her, smiled at her, and let her smile at him; thoughts of Belle he steadfastly pushed out of his mind. Still, when he poured the tea, he treated his with a generous dose of something that was _not_ tea. He didn't even notice that he had, as usual, poured it into the chipped cup until he saw her looking at it.

He'd brought it home after that uncomfortable encounter earlier, hoping both to allay further questioning and minimise the possibility of someone else thinking it was for sale. For twenty eight years he hadn't had to worry about it, since no one bought anything anyway, and he liked to have it where he could look at it all day—since he couldn't forget her no matter what he did, he might as well keep nearby whatever he could of her. Things were changing now, though; time was moving and people actually bought (and occasionally stole) things from his shop. All in all it was safer at home, and, since it was there, he'd renewed his old habit of drinking everything out of it. Recently, "everything" had included just a tad more alcohol than he liked to admit.

"It _was_ hers, wasn't it, Mr Gold?" she asked when he sat down.

"Not technically," he replied, smiling. _Damn you, I don't want to talk about her! I'm trying not to think about her!_ "It's mine. But she dropped it one day while she was making tea, and it chipped. She was upset and apologised, but…" He trailed off, the image of the frightened girl in a gold dress dancing in front of his eyes.

"Do you have anything of hers?"

"This is the only thing."

"Do you mind…? Would you tell me about her? How did you meet her? I mean, I know you said you didn't like questions, and I don't want to be annoying, but…I want to know what happened. I want to know what he did to you."

Mr Gold sipped reflectively, and decided to tell her. He would, of course, leave out the part about the war. He would also drop the Dark One detail, and the incident with true love's kiss, and…in point of fact, he would not be _telling her_ at all. But maybe some credible half truths would sate her curiosity enough that they didn't have to talk about it anymore.

He told her that Belle used to be his house help; she would clean the place and make him meals. He toyed with the idea of relating the curtains episode, but determined against it and instead said that he had begun to fall in love with her. She'd been pretty and curious and wasn't afraid of him, which bravery he freely admitted was unusual; she'd even flirted with him on occasion, which disturbed, surprised, and fascinated him all at the same time. He told her that Belle was a great deal younger than he (he didn't say _how_ much), and that he didn't feel as though they could begin a relationship (though he didn't say that those two facts were connected).

"What did she think? Did she love you?"

He stood up and began to clear the table of the tea things, subtly turning his head away. Even though he wanted her pity now, he couldn't bear for anyone to see tears in his eyes.

"I don't know," he said. "Perhaps. But…" And this was the tricky part. He manoeuvred his words now, telling her that "someone" had begun spreading rumours about him and the sort of person he was. He didn't mention that the rumours were true or that they concerned changing him to an ordinary mortal or that it was Regina did the gossiping. He did say that Belle left, but he didn't say that he'd thrown her out. He did say that he never saw her again until he heard news that she'd been "associated" with a certain wealthy and powerful man, who then left her, and that she'd thrown herself off a building.

_That's good,_ he thought. _Just the right inflection on_ associated. _That could mean anything._

He didn't cry while relating this; he had too much energy focussed on spinning the innocent words into what meaning he chose, like he spun straw into gold. But the memory of her death still angered him, and Austen could see that.

_This is certainly different_._ I've manipulated and exploited thousands of other people's emotions to suit my purposes, but I've never exploited my own, not since Cora. I'm so sorry, Belle…_

"But why would he do that? Hadn't the damage been done when she left you?"

"I just wasn't hurt enough, apparently," he muttered, grinding his teeth.

"Are you sure he did it to hurt _you_? I mean, for God's sake, she _died_. You just got your heart broken."

"One thing I know for certain, Austen, is that he never cared about her, or what happened to her. It seemed a little as though he did, once, and I would have been content…but hurting _her_ hurt me. In his defence, I'm sure he had no idea of her dying." _I'm sure he didn't_.

"How can you say _anything_ in his defence? How could _anyone_? How can you _forgive_ him?" She began to sound as if tears were not far off. "He didn't even explain, or anything. It's like he didn't care about her, about what happened to her. Does the man have _any_ feelings?"

_Please don't cry. I'm trying to manipulate my own emotions, not let others manipulate them for me. Thank gods your eyes are brown._

She didn't cry. She cleared her throat and looked at the table, at her hands clenched into fists. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still kind of upset."

"Of course you are, dearie." _That helped. Condescension, even if she didn't recognise it as such, helped. He would never be condescending to Belle_.

"I don't understand why I feel so _connected_ to him. You've heard of love at first sight? I don't believe in it. It's stupid. But the first time I saw him, I felt like I knew him, somehow. It was like seeing someone I already loved, but I knew consciously I was seeing him for the first time. And I can't…shake that, because every time I see him…but how _can_ I love him? How _could_ anyone love him? After what he's done…"

"Maybe you just need to spend some time away from him. I'd imagine your sister would recommend that."

She looked surprised. _Careful. Don't give too much away._ "That's exactly what she recommended. Actually, that's why I'm…well, that's why I'm here. I only _sort of_ wanted to walk you to work."

"Indeed?"

"I came to ask you a favour. I mean, you were awfully nice to me yesterday, when I needed somebody to talk to, even though it was about…him."

"Ask away, dearie."

With his plan working beautifully, although it took a serious toll on him, Mr Gold thought he was prepared for anything. Her request surprised even him.

* * *

Austen took three careful steps out of her bedroom, looked both ways down the hall, and made for the head of the stairs with the agility and silence of a cat.

"Aaaand just where do you think you're going?"

She halted at the head of the stairs and turned to find her sister giving her a quizzical look. Annabel wore a baseball cap turned backwards, an oversized t-shirt, a ragged old pair of jeans, and fuzzy bunny slippers; she looked fabulous. Considering that Austen had just spent the last thirty minutes refining her appearance, this seemed grossly unfair.

"Out," she said.

"With whom?"

"Ruby and some of the girls?"

"Liar. Who is he? I thought you said you _didn't_ need any more guys in your life."

"I don't. He isn't _more_; he's one of the original ones."

"You're going on a date with Rich?"

"No! Mr Gold. And it's…not exactly a date."

"What is it?"

"A…meeting. At a restaurant."

"Add 'romantic intent' and you've got a date. Austen, you're dating a man twice your age? Why? You kept insisting you weren't attracted to him!"

"And _you_ kept insisting I _was_, so I don't understand why you have a problem with this."

"I don't have a problem with it, exactly. Actually, I kind of admire Mr Gold, and I know he really likes you. I just want to know, why the sudden change of heart? And why you're wearing my best necklace to a 'meeting' with a guy you're not attracted to."

"To be honest, it's because of Rich. I don't want him to talk to me anymore; I want to avoid him. So, I figured, if I started dating his worst enemy—who, incidentally, is a nice guy—it might scare Rich away and distract me at the same time."

"I sincerely hope Mr Gold knows about this. The last thing you need to do is break his heart again."

"Of course he knows. And he's still so desperately in love with the girl who died that I doubt I have a chance of breaking his heart, even if I want to."

"And you know this for sure? Somehow I never saw Mr Gold as the pining, living-in-the-past type. He's more an 'I can predict your every move and tell you how _Lost_ is going to end after only seeing the first two episodes' type."

"Annie, he hums her favourite song when he's concentrating and he drinks out of a broken cup because she dropped it."

"Okay, leaning towards pining. But then dating him might not be the best idea."

"Look, I appreciate the analysis and everything, but I'm going to be late. And it's not romantic, it's just a blind."

"You know, most people use this sort of thing to _get_ the guy. It's called the jealously gambit or something."

"Well, the _other_ benefit of going out with Mr Gold is that if Rich does come anywhere near me, I can use that gold-handled cane to beat him up."

* * *

"Did you ever make that meeting with the mysterious person who was going to buy your land?" Austen asked lightly. They'd eaten at the town's only other restaurant that wasn't Granny's or the swanky gourmet. They'd talked about…well, Austen couldn't really remember. But that was nice. She'd laughed a lot, and probably talked more than she should have.

In fact, he seemed to purposely say just enough to keep up the semblance of a conversation without interrupting her flow. It was as if he instinctively understood that she needed to talk tonight, just like yesterday when he'd taken her in his arms. Lots of men didn't do anything when a woman cried, or they tried to talk to her or something, but Mr Gold understood that all Austen wanted to do was cling to someone and feel their heartbeat.

Now, though, as they walked together down Main Street toward the ice cream parlour, she wanted to make him talk a little. She still had so many questions she wanted to ask him about his life, about how he came to Storybrooke, about his family, about the kind of things he liked and disliked. Most of all, she wanted to know more about Belle; she couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding something. She didn't think it was the right time to talk about those things, though, so she just asked a simple question for now.

"Yes, I did. Yesterday evening. A very satisfactory transaction for all parties."

"And you're still not going to tell me who it is?"

He smiled at her. "Even besides client confidentiality, I find business runs more smoothly when most of the details are kept private."

"Not surprising. That's what you seem to think about everything."

"Oh, come now. That's hardly fair, coming from you."

"Okay, fine. You've told me a lot more than you tell anyone else, and I know you've got a right to your privacy. You're right." She smiled. "I guess _I'm_ the sort of person that has to tell everyone everything, and then I meet someone like you and you're different and I have a hard time understanding it. I'm sorry. But I _have_ been talking for the past hour, and you've been nice about it, and I think you should say _something_. I've talked myself out."

"Well, what shall I say?"

"I don't know. How about small talk? Then neither of us will have to say anything, which will suit both of us fine, me having talked all evening and you being taciturn."

"Small talk as in, 'How are you this evening, Miss O'Sullivan? Isn't it a fine night?'"

"Good, let's start there! 'Why, yes it is, Mr Gold, and please call me Austen…' What's your first name?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe I don't have one."

"Right, taciturnity. Secrecy. Got it. Ahem. 'Why, yes it is indeed a fine night. I could really go for some ice cream right now.'"

"'Well, that is indeed fortunate, as we are headed toward—imagine that!—the ice cream parlour!'"

"'I understand you frequent this place…frequently.' Oh, that doesn't sound great. Can I rephrase?"

"Too late. Words are very powerful, Miss O'Sullivan, and once said cannot be unsaid. 'I do frequent this place. I make it a policy to have at least one serving of ice cream every two days.'"

"'Then I am surprised at your trim figure, Mr Gold.'"

"'My servings are light, and my habit is to walk. I generally prefer a solitary walk to a solitary drive.'"

"And why is that?"

"I don't think this is small talk anymore."

"Don't be silly. Anything that doesn't mean anything is small talk."

"You have to define 'meaning' something."

"You sound like…" She bit her lip. "I need to stop saying that. But you are a lot like him. I mean, you're not, but..."

"What makes you think we're similar?" he asked. He turned to study her, a line between his brows.

"Well, I mean, you don't hurt people or anything."

"Assume that we were both angels."

"Who's to say what we'll all be like as angels?"

"All right, assume that neither of us has hurt anyone too terribly. How are we similar?"

"Well, you both think about things and study things before making decisions, and you both spend a lot of time thinking about and planning for the future. You're both very logical, and you're both hard to argue with and fun to talk to at the same time. You're both stubborn and secretive, or 'private,' depending on what spin you want to put on it. You both have a certain flair for doing things and living, even if it's a low-key sort of flair. You both have a hard time expressing your feelings, though I think you at least are secretly kind of vulnerable. You're both very determined to get your own way and are very good at getting it. You're both rich, and intelligent, and…relatively attractive; I mean, you even have the same brown eyes. And I think you've both got high standards for yourself and for everyone else, maybe in different areas."

Mr Gold didn't say anything after this analysis. They went on walking until they reached the ice cream parlour.

As he opened the door for her, he said, "You may find, Austen, that too much observation may get you in trouble."

"You're saying that my analysis was too accurate?"

He shrugged. "I couldn't say." But then he smiled at her, a little sadly, it seemed. "You're very sharp, aren't you? You make connections easily. Just be careful that you don't put people in boxes and forget to study them as individuals."

"Don't worry. I think about that all the time; try to realise that people aren't who I think they are or want them to be, and that I can't really change people."

"Oh, you can change people, Miss O'Sullivan. But it's much, much easier to change them for the worse than it is to change them for the better."

"You're saying this from experience?"

"Well, I'm saying this from being very old, and having seen a great deal more of the world than you."

They ordered their ice cream: vanilla in a bowl for Mr Gold and rainbow sherbet cone for Austen, who felt like trying something new.

"You're not that old," she said when they sat down. "Have you really seen the world? You've been here as long as I can remember."

"Well, I've been a great variety of places and known a great variety of people, and I'm likely much older than you think."

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me _how_ old?"

"I don't make a habit of sharing personal details, as you so astutely pointed out."

"I'll tell you how old _I_ am," she wheedled.

"Oh, that won't be necessary. You're almost twenty three."

She stared at him. "How on earth did you know that?"

"I told you. I make a point of researching potential assets."

"And that's _all_ you're going to say about it? Okay, fine. What else do you know about me?"

He smiled, put down his spoon, leaned back in his chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "I know that you have four sisters, one of whom you live with and care about very much. I know that you're unusually intelligent. I know that your family is poor, and that you've been working since you graduated high school to make enough money for college, because you have a horror of going into debt that is matched only by your uncertainty about leaving Storybrooke. I know that you're musical; I know that you love word games and metaphors. You're bad with details, you can be clumsy, and you occasionally let anger and prejudice cloud your judgement; you tend to place a great deal of faith in first impressions, but also try to understand things and people. You've never been in a relationship because you've never found anyone who could compete with you intellectually. I also know that you're very tactile and enjoy being touched and held, though you downplay that for the sake of social acceptability. Will that do for a start?"

"For a _start_?" she gasped. "I thought you said too much observation could get you in trouble!"

He resumed eating his ice cream with a calm air. "Turnabout is fair play, dearie."

"How did you know that last one? I don't tell people that. I don't…I mean…"

"No, indeed. People don't. Perhaps I don't care for people as much as you do, but I can be quite perceptive when I choose."

"And why would you choose so in my case?"

He only smiled.


	26. Chapter 26: Or Not

After finishing their ice cream, they left the parlour. She kept plying him with questions about details; never big things. She was working her way up.

As they passed by his shop, he paused. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Would you care to come in for a minute?"

"I work there; why on earth would I want to spend my time off in that dusty little place?"

"I happen to be very fond of my little shop! And of dust!" he said, pretending to be offended. "Besides, I have something for you. Yes, I do remember the Mace."

"Where do you get off giving me all these presents? And I don't think I'll need the Mace this time."

"Oh, no, not a present; this, I believe, belongs to you."

* * *

"Elizabeth, is that you? Elizabeth, will you come in here for a moment, please?" Darcy stood at the door to his study, looking tall, imposing, and (thought Elizabeth) unreasonably attractive. He also looked rather pleased about something. He held out his hand and she took it, pressing it to her lips for a moment before letting him lead her into his study.

"What is it?" she enquired. Then she gasped.

Spread out across his desk lay at least two dozen jewels of every shape and description, in old-fashioned settings. Necklaces, earrings, brooches, and bracelets sparkled in the sunlight that played across them from the window.

"Good heavens! Have you been robbing pirate coves, darling?"

"I went to the bank this afternoon and took my mother's jewels from the safe box there. Why don't you choose one?"

"One for _myself_?" she asked, eyes shining.

"Well, really, all of them belong to you. There are others that were willed to Georgiana, but these are for my wife. In time, we'll redo all of them; I thought for now you might pick your favourite, and we could have it set in time for your birthday next month."

"Oh, darling, they're so beautiful! How do I choose?"

"This isn't even all of them; I left the diamonds at the bank. There were quite a few of them, but I remember you told me you didn't care for them."

She laughed. "As ever, your memory is beautifully accurate. But these alone must be worth a small fortune!" She looked over them and finally chose a necklace that had been almost hidden by the others. "This."

"This?" He took the trinket sceptically. "You know that all of them are yours and you needn't be moderate?" he asked after a moment.

"Oh, I know. But…this is the only one with amethysts."

"Amethysts?"

"I've always liked them."

"But these are very poor ones."

"I don't mind."

He put them down. "Very well, then. What sort of setting do you like? I took some drawings from the jeweller's in Lambton. These are the latest."

_She sat down in his chair and began to look through them; he stood by her with his hand on the back of her neck, feeling the way her hair met her skin. Whatever she chooses, he thought, she'll look beautiful._

"I can't decide between this and…this. Oh, this is too grand of a birthday present! I've never had such fine things offered me in my life. Am I princess?"

"You are my wife, dearest. I would see you dressed as a queen."

_She rubbed her head against his side, and he ran his fingers over her fluffy hair. Sometimes she seemed like a playful animal, a dog or a cat, that needed petting and handling. He'd never been comfortable touching anyone before, but he loved to touch her, to please her, to hear the purring sound she made in the back of her throat when she nuzzled against him and feel her breathing come more quickly when he responded to her affection._

* * *

Lizzy pulled on her white gloves and studied herself in the mirror. She wore a white dress with a deep purple sash, and violets tied with white ribbons in her curly hair. She wore pearl drops in her ears and a silver bangle on her wrist; she needed only the necklace to look complete. Elizabeth had yet to see her birthday present; Darcy had promised to bring it to her in her room before taking her down to dinner.

She dismissed the maid and sat in the window seat, looking at the fine early fall that had spread over the trees, making them riotously colourful. The bird sang and called to each other, and she could hear, from her seat, the distant low gurgle of the river.

"Elizabeth?"

There he stood in the door, holding a parcel wrapped up in soft folds of cloth. She jumped up and ran to him. "There you are, darling!"

"Here I am, and I bear gifts!" He led her to a chair and knelt in front of her. "Now, it isn't exactly what you asked for, but I do hope…that is, I think you may like it," he said, unwrapping the parcel and holding it up.

* * *

"You think that _ever_ belonged to _me_?" Austen demanded, staring at what Mr Gold presented her.

A dozen amethysts, smaller than peas, hung from threads of braided silver. Seed pearls seemed to float among them, almost invisibly connected to the chain. At the centre, a circle of tiny diamonds surrounded a teardrop shaped amethyst, a network of silver weaving out in all directions. It was gorgeous, breathtaking, and certainly didn't belong to Austen O'Sullivan.

He placed it in her hand. "It does now," he replied. "Put it on."

"You bought me this dress and books _and_ don't think I haven't noticed the exorbitant bonuses you keep slipping into my paycheck. You really think I'm going to accept this?"

"Do you not like it?"

"Of course I like it; it's beautiful, but…"

"Please, Austen. Accept it. As a favour to me."

She was about to argue when she met his eyes. Beautiful brown eyes; maybe the only really beautiful feature of his weathered face. He truly wanted her to have it.

She lifted it so that it caught the light, sparkling and reflecting purple shadows on everything. "It's really lovely," she said. She put it on and fastened it without any difficulty at all, then bent over to look in a little hand mirror.

_"How did you know? This is what I envisioned, dearest. This is it exactly."_

_"I didn't know. But I thought perhaps it would look well thus."_

_"Oh, my darling! But surely these perfect jewels didn't come from that little necklace?"_

_"Perhaps not all of them. You said you liked amethysts, so I acquired some less imperfect ones, and the pearls are to match your wedding ring."_

_"Flawlessly logical, as usual, my love. The diamonds, I suppose, were dropped in your lap by some good faerie."_

Austen started back a little, confused.

"What's wrong? You don't like it after all?"

"No, it's not that. I just…I thought I heard something." She turned back to him, feeling tears prick at her eyes. "It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I've always loved amethysts. I mean, I know they're not worth much, but they're so beautiful. I always felt like Anne Shirley; I never cared much for diamonds."

"Amethyst suits you, and it suits the dress."

"I never thought purple and dark blue would go together; I always thought they were too similar."

"I believe you would look well in anything."

She flushed. "No, indeed. This blue happens to be a nice colour on me."

"Which reminds me, I haven't really got a proper look at that dress since we bought it. Spin around, let me see."

"Oh, because that ended really well last time! I can trip on perfectly flat surfaces; you know that."

"I find that peculiar. You have such grace in your movements. I believe you dance, don't you?"

"I…I don't dance. Not anymore."

He looked at her doubtfully, then a smile spread over his face and he lifted his hand to pick up the needle of an old Victrola. The record began to spin, playing some kind of soft dance music. He bowed to her. "Let's try it and see, shall we?"

She laughed and took his hand. A waltz, she thought. _One_ two three, _one_ two three…Somehow, Mr Gold managed to make his cane, and even his limp, part of the dance. He also managed to keep the lead, effortlessly.

_He bowed, she curtseyed, and they joined hands. She could feel the tension in his hand, the disgust in his face. Some subconscious part of her mind noticed the flush on his well-cut face and the light in his brown eyes. He may have been handsome, and young, and rich, but merely taking his hand made her want to retch._

_She decided it would be a punishment to him to make him talk, so she began, "I believe we must have some conversation…"_

She twirled back into his arms, trying to brush away the images of Rich that somehow kept intruding.

* * *

He spun her and then caught her in his arms. Her hair clip had come out, sending all her dark curls tumbling down over her back and shoulders in a shower of sweet, intoxicating scent. He couldn't see her eyes. The dim bulbs cast a red light across her hair. If he closed his eyes and breathed her in, she _was_ Belle.

"You dance very well," she said over her shoulder.

"I've had a lot of practice."

_I'm sorry, Belle, I'm so sorry; I love you._

Of course, he knew who she was. But he could pretend. It would be so easy to pretend. Pretend that she had really come back, that he could tell her he was sorry, that he loved her. How he loved her! She went away thinking he didn't care, that his power meant more. He'd said as much with his own lips. She didn't believe him, but she was still angry; angry that he would choose power over love, magic over her. _I do love you_. _I_ do _love you_. _You were right all along._

"Who do you practice with? You tend to be so…solitary. Even lonely."

"Any man would be lonely," he murmured. _I'm not a man. Or am I? In this world…Belle, if you'd only come with me, here. I could be a man._

He swept her curls away from the side of her neck and bent his head to kiss the vein. She stiffened when his lips met her skin, but she didn't pull back.

_She was never afraid of me. She loves to be kissed, to be touched._ _My Belle…_

His arms circled her little waist and pulled her close to him. She covered his hands with her own.

"I was going to ask you..." she said, haltingly, "I was going to ask you what happened to…your family. Your wife."

He could _taste_ her, taste her skin, just as he had once—only once. "What happened…is that I'm a difficult man to love." _But you loved me. And I love you._

She turned then, in the circle of her arms, and put hers around his neck, and kissed him.

_Belle_.

* * *

A middle-aged sedan made its way down Main Street, slowly, trying to part the faintly purple mist that surrounded everything.

Rich tried to concentrate on the road, but, of course, his mind was elsewhere. He kept running over those phrases, the way she'd said them. He kept trying to frame his own answers to them, but no matter what he did the words didn't sound right. What had she meant…? How could he…? Did she…?

What had that man told her? How dared he say such things to her? Couldn't she see what kind of man he was?

As he passed Mr Gold's Pawn Shop, the light there attracted his attention. He glanced at the glass door and nearly drove off the road.

* * *

When Mr Gold responded to her kiss, Austen felt a strange thrill. She'd never kissed a man before; she wasn't sure she'd know how to do it. But he didn't seem to mind; he pulled her closer and murmured something in the back of his throat. She felt the grip of his free hand on her back; for such a little man, his hold on her was surprisingly strong. This close to her, he smelled musky and earthy; his hot breath smelled like wood. His kiss tasted coppery, like blood…

_Cologne, and salt._

_Rich smelled of cologne, and tasted like salt._

_This is wrong._

Confused, she opened her eyes and pulled away a little. The minute their lips left each other, some sort of magic spell seemed to be broken; he blinked, shook his head, released her, and gripped his cane. He muttered something that sounded like "blue eyes."

"Gold, I'm so sorry. I can't do this."

"No. No, of course not," he said slowly, frowning.

"No matter how much I...want it, you'll never be him."

"And no matter how much I want it," he said, "you'll never be her."

"God, you know, I wish I were her. If I were her, maybe…maybe I could love you."

"And if I were he, I know that I would love you."

She shook her head. "He doesn't love anybody but himself. I'm so sorry about all this. It was…it was a bad idea. I should go."

This time he didn't turn his head away quickly enough. She saw the tears.


	27. Chapter 27: Skin Deep

**Author's Note: Basically, the Storybrooke part of the episode, with some extrapolations. Thanks to you people who've been reading; reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

* * *

"Well, this is just _perfect_," purred a voice. "I've been looking for you, Mr French."

_Oh, dear God,_ thought Moe. Everyone in town knew what that soft, pleasant voice meant when it said it had been "looking for you." It meant that Mr Gold (and an "associate" approximately twice his height) would be standing there, quite nonchalantly, ready to remind you in the gentlest possible words that _Mr Gold's agreements were always honoured._

"I'll have your money next week," he said, not meeting the man's eyes. He thought he could smell alcohol, and that was bad news. Not that Mr Gold was an angry drunk—from his observation, he couldn't see that the man was any kind of drunk. He didn't _get_ drunk. He never lost control; he just became a lot less subtle about that fact that he absolutely controlled your life.

"The terms of the loan _were_ fairly specific."

Moe knew that Mr Gold, not a merciful landlord at the best of times, had a particular antipathy for himself. Any excuse…

"Take the van," he said to his associate without further preamble. Then he strolled away, apparently quite unruffled, ignoring Moe's pleas and shouts as well as his associate's evident intent to run over the flower dealer.

Regina stood by and smiled. Armed with what she knew, this should be easy.

Mr Gold strolled by, but Regina greeted him. "Quite a show back there!"

"Mr French is just having a bad day. Happens to the best of us," he said.

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," she said, flipping her hair.

"Yeah, and the moment _you_ have something _I_ want to discuss, we'll have that little chat." His voice slurred almost imperceptibly; more an intensifying of accent than an actual slur. Still, that only happened when he'd had a _lot_ to drink.

He was about to walk on, but she stepped in front of him. "No, we're gonna do this now. It will only take a moment."

"Is there something eating you, dear? Something you need to get out in the open?" That _dear_. Did he know? He must know. And yet how could he? She was about to say something, but he went on, "Cause it's gonna have to wait." Then he leaned forward, bared his teeth in a ghastly grin, and whispered, "_Please_."

She could feel those old puppet strings pulling at her. _As long as I say_ please…

He strolled past her, his cane going _click_, _click_ against the sidewalk.

* * *

Mr Gold pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and drained its contents. Then he pushed open the door to his shop; the jangling of the bell was answered by Austen's voice from the back. "Just a second, I'll…oh, hi, Mr Gold," as she appeared at the counter. "I thought you'd be here a little sooner."

"Tracking a debtor took rather longer than expected."

"You _track_ them? What, like they aren't home when you come collecting, so you send out the bloodhounds?"

"I don't normally let people get away." He stared at her with eyes wide and unseeing.

She gave him a peculiar look. "Mr Gold…Are you feeling okay? You look…weird."

_Damn you and your concern. You're making this harder by the day. Your brown eyes are the only things keeping me on course right now._

"I believe I'll go home, in fact. Can you watch the shop for a few hours?"

"Of course. I think you should go get some rest. But…"

"But what?"

"We…I mean, we should talk about…about what happened. Sometime. I know there's not much more to say, but we should probably say it."

_Stop looking at me like that. I hate you. Everything I love about you belongs to someone else; you, I hate. Stop looking at me as if you're sorry for me; as if you want to love me. I don't want you to love me._ I hate you.

"Miss O'Sullivan, I don't really believe it's necessary to talk about _everything_. We've made our feelings perfectly clear."

She nodded, and turned her head away. "Okay, I guess. It's just that I don't really have anyone else I can talk to about it."

_I don't care. I don't care what you're feeling. I don't care that you need to talk; I really don't want to talk about this._

"What do you want to say?"

"I…I want to tell you that I'm sorry. For what I did. I know that it was my fault. I do think of you as a friend; you're smart and kind and understanding. I think trying to go out with you was a bad idea. I'm sorry for that too. I don't think that should happen anymore, because it's only going to get worse."

He nodded. "Is that all?"

"Pretty much. Just so…you've got all that."

"I don't believe it'll be necessary for us to go out anymore, Austen. I think Mr Doyle got the message quite clearly."

"What do you mean?"

"I ran into him this morning in the course of my rounds; he informed me that he was 'aware of our relationship' and told me in no uncertain terms that he doesn't approve."

"Well, I suppose that's…good. If he knows. I think he's pretty disgusted with me anyway, based on how he looked at me."

"That's likely enough to be true."

"Oh, and I wanted to thank you for the necklace. I know it must be extremely valuable."

He inclined his head briefly. "Now, if there's nothing else, I leave this shop in your capable hands."

* * *

A few minutes after the door closed, Austen, comfortably seated behind the counter with _War of the Worlds_, looked up at the sound of it opening again, and saw Regina Mills come through.

Austen stood up. This wasn't altogether unprecedented; Regina came in sometimes to yell at Gold about something he'd done, and Gold wasn't always there to be yelled at. In these cases, Austen usually gently but firmly informed the mayor of her employer's absence and politely suggested that she leave.

"Hi, Mayor Mills. Mr Gold isn't…"

"Oh, I know, dear, I saw him leave. Today, in fact, I have a purchase in mind."

Austen raised her eyebrows. "Okay. What are you looking for?"

"I saw an interesting piece of china in here the other day; I don't see it now…do you know if it's still here?"

"Well, we have lots of pieces of china; you'll have to be a bit more specific."

"It was a china cup…a teacup, I believe. About this big?" She made her hands a circle, a few inches in diameter. "It intrigued me."

Austen said, carefully, "I don't think it's here anymore, I'm sorry. Anything else I can help you with?"

Regina smiled. "No, thank you, that's perfectly all right. If you do find that the cup is here, I would like to be contacted, if at all possible."

_What's that about?_ Austen wondered as the mayor strolled out, smiling to herself. _Why does Regina want Mr Gold's cup?_

* * *

Mr Gold limped up the steps to his mansion. Somehow, the drinking had only intensified the pain in his leg; it had also blurred his vision. This vaguely annoyed him. He concentrated on trying to clear it, but still failed to notice the fact that the door was open until he put his hand on it and it gave way.

Instantly, warning bells clanged in his head. _Intruder._ _Someone has broken into my house_. Suddenly alert, he stepped over the threshold, carefully placed his feet so as to avoid the creaking floorboard and keep his presence a silent secret.

_Gun_. He kept a gun in his umbrella stand. He never used it; he rarely found himself in need of any weapon more potent than a gleaming smile or a well-written contract. In this state, though, he'd hardly be able to fight off an intruder with his bare hands, or even with the aid of his cane.

_Damn my leg. Damn this world. Damn everything_.

The little man gritted his teeth, furious at himself for the feeling of terror that rose up inside him. _I swore never to be afraid again, and I won't be. I_ will not _be afraid._

His hand closed around the barrel of the gun. He gripped it. The sweat stood out on his forehead. _I'm not going to be afraid._

Vision focussed if not sharp, his ears pricked up to hear the slightest noise, his feet silent against the floor, he slipped into his living room. The room had been trashed; some things lay on the ground, some things were broken, and several things were missing altogether. When he realised this, his eyes went immediately to the cabinet where he kept the little cup…

_Open, the door off its hinges, and completely empty._

The floorboard creaked and he heard a little clicking noise, like a gun preparing to fire. He whirled, his gun at the ready, trying to force his eyes to see past the blur. A woman with blonde hair in a winter coat and hat stood in the doorway, her gun trained on him.

"Sheriff Swan," he exclaimed. He frantically gathered up his scraps of self-assurance and managed a manic smile.

"Your neighbours saw the door open; they called it in." Neither of them lowered their weapon.

"It appears I've been robbed," he said.

"Funny how that keeps happening to you."

Everything was off-balance, out of focus, whether from the drink or the loss of the cup, he couldn't tell. _My cup. My Belle's cup. But who would steal from me? Obviously, someone who wants to barter…Moe French. He wants his van back. He took her from me, and now he's taking my last little piece of her! But how could he know about it?_

_I'm gonna kill him. I'm going to rip his heart out and tear it to shreds…_

He had to answer her. A phrase came to mind; a phrase from long ago and from yesterday. "Yeah, well," he said, trying to keep his voice from slurring or shaking or sounding ridiculously emotional, "I'm a difficult man to love."

She stared at him for a second, put her gun back in its holster, and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. "Okay, so, if you can, I need you to figure out what's missing."

"Sheriff Swan, you can go now," he said. "I know exactly what was taken and who did it. I've got it from here." _I'm gonna tear his heart out and crush it while he watches and writhes from the pain; he'll feel every pang, every scream of my soul, as I grind it into dust in front of his eyes. No, I can't do that yet. Well, then, I won't kill him yet; I'll just cut off his feet, I'll break his fingers, I'll gouge out his eyes, I'll pull his nails out one by one by the roots…_

His pleasant fantasy was interrupted by the sheriff's voice. "No, you don't. This is a robbery—a _public menace_—and if you don't tell me what you know, I'm going to have to arrest _you_, for obstruction of justice. I have a feeling you don't want to be behind bars."

Somehow, he knew that it would please her inordinately to see him in jail. But every day that he'd forced himself to live in that cramped little dungeon, eating worms and scribbling with squid ink, he'd gone madder and madder. Of course he was already mad, but in that stinking hole he'd begun ever so slightly to lose _control_ of his madness. He felt like a caged animal. Here, it would be worse; he wouldn't be able to get out even if he wanted to. _Damn this world_.

All he said was "Indeed not." Then he sighed, and told her.

_He snapped his fingers, bringing the girl in a shower of purple smoke. She coughed and stared around at the room, taking in the grandeur, and finally fixed her large blue eyes on him._

_"Tea," he said, pointing to a tea set on a far table. He could have gotten it just as easily by magic, but he wanted to take a look at her. The tight gold bodice showed off her little frame very well, and he liked her hair: he'd always liked brunettes best, back when he'd cared._

_"You will serve me my meals," he said when she retrieved the tray, "and you will clean the Dark Castle."_

_Coming forward, trembling, the light casting inviting shadows over her bare white shoulders, she muttered, "I…I…I understand."_

_"You will dust my collection and launder my clothing."_

_"Yes." She nodded and relaxed a bit as she poured tea into a cup._

_"You will bring me fresh straw when I'm spinning at the wheel."_

_"Got it." She was almost smiling now; apparently the list of chores agreed with her more than she'd expected it to._

_"Oh," he added, out of cheerful malice, "and you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts!"_

_She had just lifted the cup to bring it to him, but at this revelation she started and dropped it on the floor, splattering tea on the hem of her golden dress._

_"That one was a quip! Not serious!" he giggled. After all, why make her skin children when magic could do it just as well? And what on earth would you do with the skin of a child? Simply impractical._

_The girl gasped in relief. Trying and failing to smile at his joke, she quickly bent to retrieve the cup, folds of gold fabric billowing out around her. "Oh, my," she whispered, the blood draining from her face. Really, she was terribly pretty; the sort of girl he would have had a crush on, hundreds of years ago, when he could still feel that kind of thing. He leaned over to get a better look at her._

_"I'm so sorry, but it's…it's chipped," she said, holding it up. "You can hardly see it…?"_

_She was afraid he'd be angry; normally he would have turned someone into an animal for such clumsiness, but, after all, he did intend to keep this girl, and she was just fine the shape she was. After staring at her for a second to make her feel uncomfortable, he replied carelessly, "Well, it's just a cup."_

_The image of her holding out the cup, gratitude in her blue eyes, he was to remember…_

* * *

Austen banged on the door again. She knew he was awake; she could see the light in the kitchen window, and a shadow moving back and forth in front of the blinds.

"Mr Gold? Mr Gold!" Tears of worry welled up in her eyes. When Emma Swan stopped by the shop late that afternoon, she'd been surprised; the sheriff was another of those people who only came in to talk to Mr Gold, and this didn't happen as often with her as it did with Regina. Austen had a lot more respect for the sheriff than she did the mayor, and had been much more polite in telling her to call again if she wanted to see Mr Gold.

"That's okay; you can give him a message for me. I just wanted to warn him that if he plans on seeking vigilante justice, he should know that I'll come down _extremely_ hard on him."

"Vigilante justice…for what?" Austen wanted to know.

"House got robbed earlier. I got most of the stuff back, but came in an hour or so ago and kept insisting there was something missing; pretty well told me that he was planning on dealing with it personally. I wanted to let him know that that's a bad, bad idea."

"Do you…do you happen to know what was stolen?"

Emma shrugged. "Nope. He wouldn't say."

Austen was terribly afraid she knew just what it was. Soon after the sheriff left, she shut up the shop and quickly walked the mile and a half through the rain to his house, thanking all her stars that she had on a proper pair of shoes and a coat this time.

Something was wrong. He would have come to the door unless something was wrong. She tested the handle, found it unlocked, and went in, taking off her shoes so as not to spread mud across his beautiful floors. She took in the smashed and missing things all around, and when she saw the cabinet door hanging on one hinge, the cabinet behind it completely empty, she knew her guess was right.

"Mr Gold? It's Austen." She rapped on the kitchen door before opening it.

She noticed the smell first of all. She thought at first that he'd been cleaning the kitchen, but the state of the table—the things scattered over mountain of paper included a rose, a mirror, and a silk fan—convinced her otherwise. Then she saw the bottle of scotch lying empty on its side in the debris, a slowly spreading brown puddle around it.

"Did you drink that entire thing?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Mr Gold raised his head and met her eyes; his looked as clear as ever, and his smile showed no trace of unsteadiness. "And good evening to you, Miss O'Sullivan."

"Did you?"

"Now, now, don't be ridiculous," he said. "It was half empty when I started."

"This is like a quart," she said, picking it up. "You drank a pint of ninety-proof whiskey? When did you _start_?"

He shrugged and got to his feet. "About an hour ago, when I arrived home."

"_Holy_…!"

"Excuse me. I'd like to go out now."

"That's what you've been _doing _all afternoon? Just sitting here shooting liquor?"

"The alcohol was incidental. I've been determining my course of action, and I believe I have discovered the solution to my problem. If you'll excuse me, I have something to attend to." He started to walk toward the door, but she blocked it.

"No, I'm sorry, but you _cannot_ go outside like that. How in the hell are you still _standing_?"

"Let me pass."

"No. You're drunk."

"Do I look drunk?" he asked, looking her squarely in the eye. He really didn't, but his breath smelled like scotch and his hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Mr Gold, you need to sit down. I'll get you a glass of water. Maybe you should eat something." She took him by the arm and tried to lead him back into the room, but he wrenched away from her.

"Let me pass!" he said. His eyes glinted and he gripped his cane threateningly.

"Is this about your cup? Someone stole your cup, didn't they? What on earth do you think you're going to do about it?"

"I'm not in the mood for your everlasting _questions_, Miss O'Sullivan. I have a great deal to do and I _suggest_ that you excuse me."

"Whatever you have to do can wait until tomorrow. If you go out now you're going to do something stupid!"

"Believe me, this course of action is well and thoroughly thought out; however, if you continue to block my path…"

"For God's sake, Gold, it's just a bloody _cup_! It's not worth getting yourself or someone else killed!"

He seized her by the shoulders and slammed her up against the wall, his teeth bared and his eyes murderous. "It's…not…just…a…_cup_," he snarled. "It's _everything_."

She struggled out of his grip and stood in front of him, chin up. "Mr Gold, if you go hurt someone over this—if you make this choice—you're going to regret it, forever. And for what? All you'll have to show for it is a chipped cup!"

He stared at her wildly. "Do you say things like that on purpose?" he asked. "You must. You do it on purpose. You know somehow…"

"What do you mean?"

He reached over to the table and picked up a gun. "Let me through. There's something I have to do."

"You're really gonna shoot me?"

"What? No. Of course not. If killing you would fix anything, you would be dead."

His matter-of-fact tone sent chills down her spine. When she just stood there and stared at him, he gripped her arm and threw her to the ground like a doll.

"Mr Gold, please. Please, Mr Gold. Think about what you're doing."

"I have, dearie." He left. Austen scrambled to her feet, but he closed and locked the door behind him. She heard the _click, click_ of his cane as he made his way out of the house. She beat on the door, but it didn't budge an inch; she looked around wildly for another exit and realised there was a door at the other end of the kitchen, but she didn't know the house well enough to get out in time and she heard his car starting as she reached the door.

She flung it open just in time to see the station wagon driving calmly away.

"No! Damn you, you're going to get killed!" she shouted ineffectively at the night air. She knew running would never get her anywhere, and her car was still at the shop, almost two miles away. She wanted to cry.

That's when she saw the blue sedan pull up to the curb across the street.

* * *

He struck again and again on the man's face, feeling for the first time in almost thirty years that surge of vicious satisfaction that comes with hearing a man's screams, of feeling the splatter of his blood and seeing him cringe, of hearing his bones crack like brittle twigs. He'd been called cruel, sadistic; true, he rarely got pleasure except from the pain of others, but the satisfaction multiplied a thousand fold when the one in pain had killed someone like his Belle.

Everything in his body was on fire. Fury and anguish clawed at his throat and wrenched his arms. With every strike of his cane, he could see the image that had haunted him for years: the image of Belle lying on the ground, mangled and bloody; her beautiful hair clotted with blood, her beautiful soft white skin scarred and bruised with scourging, her beautiful body emaciated, her beautiful soul tortured and finally destroyed. His Belle, so full of love that she could find affection for _him_, starved of all love and care until her heart broke. When her heart broke, his heart shattered and splintered like glass; he would gladly kill to get rid of those splinters…

"It's _your fault_!" he screamed, smashing him with his cane. "It's your…!"

His arm met resistance. He couldn't bring the cane down again. He lifted his head and found himself staring at Sheriff Emma Swan.

"Stop," she said.

* * *

He'd been there for eleven hours, and already he could feel the madness creeping in. The cramped little jail cell spun around him like a merry-go-round. He could swear he saw the green whirlpool churning in front of his eyes, and hear Bae's voice shouting and shrieking in terror and fury. Of course, he always saw that, but only madness could bring it before him so vividly.

God, he hated prison. He hated being caged up like some animal, maybe because, somewhere deep inside him, he feared that an animal was exactly what he _was_. But he didn't want to think about that now. He focussed instead on the beautiful woman standing several yards outside the bars, looking so _damnably_ smug. Well, two could play the _smug_ game, if it came to that.

"_Please_," he said. "Sit."

She hesitated only a second before the puppet strings pulled at her, dragging her towards him. That was satisfying, anyway.

"Now, when two people each want something the other has, a deal can always be struck," he said. "_Do you have what I want?_"

Regina smiled like a shark, and took her sweet time in responding. "Yes."

The scotch and adrenaline had worn off, and now he could feel everything in his body trembling. She probably had it with her. His cup. He could probably almost reach out and touch it…_almost_. How in the hell had she found out about it? He'd been so very, very careful…

"So," he said, carefully smoothing his voice to sound calm and collected, when all he really wanted was to break the bars of the prison, strangle Regina, and take back his precious object, "you did put him up to it, then."

"I merely suggested that…strong men _take_ what they _need_."

"Oh, yeah, and you told him just _exactly_ what to _take_, didn't you?" he snapped, echoing her mocking tone.

"We used to know each other so well, Mr Gold. Has it really come down to this?"

"It seems it has, yeah. Now, you know what I want; what is it you want?"

"I want you to answer one question, and answer it simply." Her eyes fixed on his face, she asked it: "What's your name?"

He didn't miss a beat. "It's Mr Gold."

"Your _real_ name." She appeared unruffled.

"Every moment I've spent on this earth," he said, choosing his words with care and assumed flippancy, "that's been my name."

"But what about moments spent elsewhere?"

His head ached. His heart bled. The fleeting satisfaction of brutalising Moe French was gone now, and all he had was his empty heart…empty and black. Everything in him burned with hatred and revulsion for this woman, this arrogant two-bit sorceress who had the gall to think she could overcome the Dark One, the master of all magic. Didn't she know that everything she was, everything she'd ever had, she owed _him_? She owed him her very life, a dozen times over. Her mother would have perished in that tower. This curse, the reason they were even here, he had created and given her. The _fool_. The pretentious little _fool_.

"What…what are you asking me?" he asked. He needed to make this harder for her. He needed to draw this out. But he wanted the cup; it was all he had left, all he cherished, and somehow she _knew_ that. How did she _know_?

"I think you know. If you want me to return what's yours, tell…me…your…name."

And after all, wouldn't it be as well? He loved subtlety, toying with her emotions, drawing this out, driving her crazy, but if this was the only way to get it back, he would do it. At least then she could be afraid. She _would_ be afraid.

_Damn it all, this shouldn't mean that much. I shouldn't be so desperate for a piece, a trinket, a memory, that I would give up_ anything _to have it back._ _I should have forgotten all this long ago…_

He let his face distort into a crocodile's grin and chuckled. After all, there was no point in letting her think that she had won.

* * *

As Emma and Henry headed out, they practically rammed into Rich Doyle, headed in.

"Oh, Sheriff Swan. I apologise. I was hoping to speak with one of your inmates?"

"Only got one. You want to talk to Gold?" she asked.

"Yes. Is that all right?"

"Sure, go on in. The mayor's in there right now, but I don't think she'll be long. Oh, and thanks, by the way, for calling in that tip last night. How'd you know he would be at the cabin?"

Rich shrugged. "Instinct. And it made sense: he owns it, it's secluded and convenient. There's only so many places you can go in a town this size if you intend to commit brutal assault."

The sheriff left with her son in tow, and Rich went into the station. The front door connected to the room with the cells by a hallway, and the door at the other end stood propped open. As he approached the open door, he began to hear strains of conversation; Mr Gold's low accents punctuated by a woman's voice that he recognised as the mayor's.

"Has it really come down to this?" she was saying. She had a malicious chuckle in her voice. Rich despised people who abused their power when they had the advantage; in her place, though, he was sure Mr Gold would be doing the exact same thing. Those two had always hated each other; maybe Regina even knew that Mr Gold had set up the entire situation to bring Emma to power as sheriff. Perhaps this was her method of getting revenge.

Mr Gold seemed ever so slightly distraught. No wonder, thought Rich; if he'd been as drunk as Austen claimed, he'd have a hell of a hangover. This was strategically perfect for Regina.

Her questions seemed directed at Mr Gold's name—had she decided he was hiding from something? His distress, however, did not extend to his ability to answer questions.

"Every moment I've spent on this earth, that's been my name," he insisted when pressed about his response.

"But what about moments spent elsewhere?"

This appeared to confuse Mr Gold as much as it did Rich. She was truly grasping at straws, or he was prevaricating to an unheard-of degree.

"If you want me to return what's yours, tell me your name." Rich had often wondered about Mr Gold's past; no one seemed to know anything. Did _she_ know something about him? If she did, why would she…?

The sound of Mr Gold's laughter carried, though it was only a low chuckle. He bared his teeth in a ghastly sort of grin, and whispered, so low that Rich could barely hear it,

"_Rumplestiltskin_."


	28. Chapter 28 : I Know Who You Are

_Rumplestiltskin_.

Something was happening; something weird. It was like that moment when you _know_ that you know something, and if you could just find it beneath everything else in your brain, it was _there_.

He fell back against the wall. He caught his breath and closed his eyes and tried to think. This was important. If he could just remember.

_Rumplestiltskin_.

An imp, in a children's story. There was no logical reason for him to call himself Rumplestiltskin; it was clearly a joke. Regina pressed him for answers; he gave her a ridiculous one. And it fit. Regina couldn't guess his name, so he pretended it was Rumplestiltskin. Yes, a joke…

And yet…he spoke with the ring of truth. Rich _knew_ that he was telling the truth. His name was Rumplestiltskin. How did he know that? What did it mean? Why did the word fill him with dread, with terror, with a sort of useless anger?

Had he been particularly afraid of the story as a child? No. He remembered finding it intriguing. Or at least…he couldn't really remember at all. He remembered the tale, but he didn't remember it being read to him, or reading himself. Why didn't he? Perhaps it had been introduced to him as a child too young to remember specific details. That would be the logical assumption. _Think_.

Why was he _so sure_ that this man was telling the truth? What could possibly make sense about his being named Rumplestiltskin?

Rumplestiltskin—the story of a miller whose prideful boast in his daughter's skills led to her being locked in a tower with bundles of straw, to spin them into gold. The imp had appeared, and in exchange for the service had demanded her firstborn child. He…

_No, no, no!_

He was powerful, much more powerful than a mere funny little man with a dance. He held a deep power, a dark power, an ancient, unstoppable power. This Rumplestiltskin would never let himself be defeated so easily. This Rumplestiltskin was…

_The Dark One_.

The moment when you suddenly remember why you walked into a room…or that you had homework…or the plot of a book you thought you had never read…broke upon the young man as he stood in that hallway.

_Rumplestiltskin_.

Cruel, enigmatic, heartless, clever, irresistible. Cold as night and foul as death and dazzling as sunlight. Villain and hero, master and servant. Spell-caster, death-monger, heartbreaker, life-saver, dream-weaver, deal-maker…

At least, that's what all the legends used to say. They said that he had no soul, but you could deal with him if you had something he wanted. They said he had some master plan that none would ever know; they said you could never know him, because there was no man there, only a monster who thirsted for suffering. They said the secret to his power was a dagger, carved with his name and stained with the blood of his first kills. They said he had no love in his heart for anything, and that he had no need for food or sleep or companionship. They said he would damn a world or end a war with the same cheerful smile on his ghastly face; they said he would do anything, if you were willing to pay the price.

_I knew all that, and yet I went to him. Thousands must have gone to him, thinking they could pay; thinking that they would happily do anything, if only they could have this one thing that seemed so important, but when they looked back they realised that anything only acquirable by dark magic is unworthy of the acquiring._

Regina stood up, apparently finished with their discussion. How long had he stood there, staring into space, trying to remember? As she spoke her last few scathing words, the young man slipped into a nearby room and waited until she passed. Then he went in to the Dark One.

* * *

"Rumplestiltskin."

Mr Gold looked up. He had no interest in seeing anyone. He wanted to be alone with the memories.

"I beg your pardon?"

Rich Doyle stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on the man in the cell. "Your name," he said. "It's Rumplestiltskin."

"And what makes you think that?"

"I heard everything. And I remember…everything."

He came forward, never taking his eyes off of Mr Gold.

"Really, dearie? Just what is it you think you remember?"

"You know, it's perfectly logical, after all. You were putting the finishing touches on that damned curse when I came to you, and you made all those provisions for yourself, didn't you? Provisions like you would remember, you would be different, you would be special. But for God's sake, you were living in my head half the time; you don't think _something_ would rub off?"

"I'm sorry; exactly who do you believe me to be?"

"It's not a matter of _belief_, and you might as well stop pretending. That conversation and the fact that you still cherish that cup show that you know exactly who you are. Furthermore, I suspect that you know me as well. Everything you've done to _her_ has been your attempt at revenge, hasn't it?"

Mr Gold sat back and closed his eyes. "Mr Darcy, I assure you, I have no idea what you're talking about. Who is _she_?"

"There. You used my name."

A slow smile spread over his face. "Very well done, sir. Unparalleled. All right; what is it you want? After all, no one comes to me without a deal in mind." _Except one._

"You're right; I have a deal in mind. I don't have your flair for the dramatic, so I'll just say it: in return for you telling her the truth, I'll post your bail."

"_Her_?"

"You know who I mean. She's called Austen here. You tell her the truth about what happened to Belle. Tell her that I never met her, and that if anyone drove her to suicide, it was…"

"I don't need you paying my way out of jail, young man," Mr Gold interrupted, his eyes glinting dangerously. "I've got enough money."

"But you don't have it in available cash. You can't get it from your lawyer, since you are your own lawyer. Not many people in town have that much ready money, and most of those who do are happy enough to see you incarcerated. Knowing you, I suspect you have a way out of this, but I don't think you enjoy your time in jail, and would like to be out as soon as possible. I have the money, and am willing to pay it on certain easily met conditions. I believe that you will accept this deal."

"Aside from your stunning logic, there's another little problem with your plan: what, exactly, am I supposed to tell her? She'll hardly believe the _whole_ truth, now, will she?"

"If you prefer, I'll tell her. You can't be trusted with the truth; you'll distort it. But you can't go on deceiving her."

"Do you expect she'll come running into your arms the moment she finds out you're not a murderer?"

"Of course not."

"Then what does all this honesty benefit you?"

"Before, all I wanted was to undeceive her as to your true character. I knew that she was beginning to care for you, and I couldn't see her fall in love with a man so utterly heartless as you are…as you seemed to be. Now, it's about her safety. In our world, you tried to kill her!"

"And you believe that if she is warned about me, she'll be able to stay away should I choose to try again?"

"Well, with this new information comes a new card to play. I know who you are, Dark One."

He laughed. "Are you threatening _me_? You're threatening to reveal my secret to the town? Go ahead! Tell everyone how I'm really Rumplestiltskin in disguise! You'll be branded a madman, and do me no harm!"

Darcy stood. He towered over the little man, and his dark eyes showed no hint of fear this time as he looked down at him. "No. Listen to what I say. _I know who you are_, Dark One. I know what you think about and what intrigues you; I know what you want, I know who you love, and I know what haunts your dreams. I'm not afraid of you. If you harm her in any way—if she cries so much as one tear over you—if one drop of her blood is spilled or one beat of her heart is stayed because of you—then I will have no mercy. You have power, Rumplestiltskin, but you're not as invulnerable as you like to think."

The room remained silent for a long minute. Everything the man had just said—every ounce of foolish posturing—was absurd, of course. But…was he really willing to take that risk?

"I came to make one deal, Gold," said Darcy, his voice a little less resounding, "but now I offer you two. Cash for bail in exchange for the truth, and mutual non-interference. Details are to be in _my_ hands, not yours."

The room spun. The walls of the confined little prison began to close in around him, shutting out the air.

_"You coward! You'll break our deal! You'll break our deal!"_

_His scream as the vortex ripped him away; the anguish of betrayal and abandonment on every feature…_

"All right, Mr Doyle," Mr Gold said, standing up too. He might not be as tall as the other man, but he could be just as imposing. "You have your deal."

The door at the other end of the hallway banged open, and footsteps rang out. "Mr Gold? I hope you like vanilla…oh, hey, Rich. Still here?"

"Yes. I actually would like to post bail for Mr Gold, if that's all right."

Emma looked surprised. "You wanna post bail for this guy?"

"Yes, I would. I have the money in cash."

"What the hell did he do to you to make you want to do _that_?"

"We made a deal, that's all."

"It's pretty high; the guy's a dangerous criminal right now."

"I can afford it, and I doubt he'll be assaulting any more innocents just now."

She shrugged helplessly. "All right. Come through to my office; we'll get the paperwork. Here's your ice cream, Gold."

He accepted it gratefully.


	29. Chapter 29: The Truth

"But if it's a good painting, why disregard its value because it 'wasn't by Rembrandt'? I mean, that's assigning a value to something because of who painted it, whereas ideally, something should be valued on its own merits, and its creator admired because he was able to make such incredible work! Shouldn't the people who made those paintings that are _every bit as good_ as Rembrandt's be respected just as much as him? And shouldn't those painting, which are _every bit as good_ as his, be respected just as much as his?"

"I don't know, Austen, why are you asking me?" Annabel asked. "I only said that my favourite Rembrandt was one that might not actually be his. That is not, in fact, a criminal thing to say. Look, I understand that you haven't had a good argument in a few days, but I'm trying to read. Go wear off your aggression on someone else. Or, better yet, why don't you go to the gym and run? That always used to make you feel better when your brain was about to explode."

"I don't understand why you keep saying that my brain explodes. You…"

"Austen, I'm not in the mood. Seriously, if you refuse to call Rich, then go to the gym."

"And why in the name of everything that is holy would I even _consider_ calling that man?"

"Because you can get a really good argument going with him, and because you don't have to worry about hurting his feelings, and…oh yeah, because you still haven't thanked him for finding Mr Gold."

"And promptly getting him put in prison!"

"…for assaulting a man with his cane. Look, I don't care what you do, but I can't deal with you in one of your argumentative moods right now. I've got my own problems. I'll be more than happy to talk to you when you feel like communicating without brutally contradicting everything I say."

"I'm not contradicting everything…okay, fine. You know what? Just for that, I'll go to the gym. I'm working on my five minute mile anyway."

"Right. Go on, have fun, come back in a more agreeable frame of mind."

Austen shrugged. She understood her sister's need _not_ to talk as well as her sister understood her need _to_ talk. After all, when Austen needed to cry, there was nothing more irritating than someone trying to talk her out of it; she figured it must be somehow the same with her sister and less intense emotional problems. Instead, she gave her a hug.

She really did like physical contact. It made her feel secure and happy to have someone that she cared about close to her. A lifetime of people squirming away from her or just looking uncomfortable had trained her to keep that in check, but those feelings resurfaced every time someone voluntarily took her hand or gave her a hug. Or took her by the shoulders and kissed her unexpectedly…

The run did help, a little. She didn't feel like talking quite so much; she couldn't, for a few minutes, because of alternately sucking in water and gulping air. Suddenly running very fast when you haven't been running in a while will do that to a person, but it had the added benefit of taking her mind off of…things for the time being.

In fact, her mind remained pleasantly engaged in trying to provide her brain with enough oxygen right up until the moment when she raised her head and saw a pair of dark brown eyes looking at her from across the room.

"Oh, dear _God_," she said. His hair was pushed back off his forehead with a white band; he wore a sweat-stained muscle shirt and had a towel around his neck. The shirt showed off his well-developed but not too bulgy arms and really amazing shoulders…He realised that she had seen him and jumped off the treadmill.

She turned away, but Rich came anyway and said her name.

"I literally have _zero_ interest in talking to you right now. In fact, I'm considering a restraining order. This cannot possibly be a coincidence."

His face contorted into that expression of disgust, but he quickly moderated that to mild distaste. "I'll leave if you want me to. But first, there are some things I need to tell you."

"I don't care about more declarations of love."

"This isn't about that. This is about Mr Gold, and what he told you, and what you think I did, and clearing my name."

"_Get out of my life._"

"I know exactly how you must feel, but this isn't a matter of feelings. This is about you knowing the truth; you deserve to know the truth, and Mr Gold wasn't going to tell it to you."

"Great, really great. You start in right off the bat insulting my friends."

"That man isn't your friend. He would literally kill you as soon as look at you."

"Well, pardon me, but he's looked at me a lot, and he hasn't killed me yet. You, on the other hand, have…"

"I can't make you like me, Austen, but you are one of the most fair and reasonable people I've ever met. It's important to you to understand things. It's especially important that you understand this…situation. I appeal to your sense of justice here. You've only heard one man's story, and that was…incomplete."

She narrowed her eyes and studied him. He looked angry, miserable, and tired, but he didn't look calculating. The gaze he fixed on her face was clear and honest and…something she couldn't identify; something different and strange, as if from a dream or a storybook; something that frightened her a little. And she could get lost in those eyes…

"All right. Meet me at Granny's in twenty minutes. You can have…an hour, to tell me whatever it is you want to say. After that, will you _please_ leave me alone?"

"I will if you wish it." Disgust again. He seemed to look at her like that at the weirdest moments. What had she possibly said to provoke that kind of revolted superiority? What had she _ever_ done to make him think he was so much better, so much removed from her?

"You want another coffee?" Ruby asked. He looked up and smiled at her rather weakly.

"Sure, thanks."

She poured it for him, making sure to show off every inch of available skin in the process. He turned his head away and looked out the window instead.

"You've been here for an hour. I don't think she's coming," said Ruby.

"Perhaps not."

Just then the door jangled, and Austen appeared. She wore stone-washed jeans, a white scarf, boots, and a grey turtleneck that softly hugged every curve; she'd tied her ponytail with a bright red scrunchy.

My God, he thought. She's so beautiful…

She saw him, sauntered over, and flopped down. "Okay. So start talking." No apology for being late, only a challenge in her fiery dark eyes to as much as mention it.

He closed his eyes and tried to think; tried to get away from the images that kept dancing in front of him of this woman and the feelings that came with them. No, they weren't logical; they never had been. But however they happened and whatever they meant, they were there, and they were real, and by God, she felt them too; he _knew_ she did. He knew this woman almost as well as he knew himself, and he could tell that, as angry and upset as she felt, she secretly hoped he would have a brilliant explanation for everything.

He'd written almost everything down; that had worked before. But talking face-to-face was important to her, at least in this incarnation. So he would talk.

"I want you to promise me not to stand up and leave until I've finished. Give me an hour."

"I said I'd give you an hour, and I will."

"I know. All right, then. You…you seemed very angry with me about two things the other day: the fact that I seemingly turned my friend against your sister, and your belief that I treated Belle and Mr Gold very badly."

"And you're going to take it upon yourself to explain all that."

He nodded. "First of all, I'd like to say that Andrew is probably my best friend, and has been for such a long time that I feel loyal to him, and want to help him avoid getting hurt. It's sort of like you and your sister. You'd walk through the rain for her—you even put up with _me_ for her sake."

"So what's your point?"

"I don't know Annabel. She's different. But Andrew often has a hard time relying on his own judgement, either as a result of extreme humility or just indecisiveness. Because of Annabel's…different behaviour toward him, he felt he needed a second opinion, so he begged me to tell him my impressions. I admit they weren't favourable; I have since changed my mind. I tried to tell him not to rely on my judgement and to form his own, better based conclusions, but he told me he really needed my help."

"So you were helping a friend. Great. Well, as far as I know, Andrew and Annabel are still together, so at least you didn't do any harm _there_. But I cannot imagine that you would think stealing Mr Gold's girlfriend would be an act of _friendship_. There was a rumour that you guys used to be friends, you know, until you screwed it up."

"We were never friends, but we knew each other quite well at one point. That, however, was _after_ Belle died."

And slowly, carefully, point by point, he began to tell everything she could possibly believe about the man who employed her.

It came hard at first. Her fine eyes glittered unrelentingly as he began to narrate, the expression reminding him of the day when he had come to her, pleading, passionate, adoring, and been spurned with venom. The worst of it, though, was that every time their eyes met and he wasn't prepared, he would feel his concentration slipping. For God's sake, hadn't he seen her often enough not to splutter like an idiot every time she looked at him?

* * *

"Is it true?"

Mr Gold looked up and smiled. The dark haired girl looked a vision in charcoal grey. "Good afternoon, Miss O'Sullivan. You have come in at a most auspicious time; I was just about to leave for an appointment with Madam Mayor. I trust you can watch the shop for an hour or two?"

"It's true, isn't it? All of it."

"You'll have to be more specific."

"You lied to me. You blatantly lied to me, didn't you?"

"I don't lie, dearie; I tell the truth, and people hear whatever they want to."

"It didn't play that way to me. You told me that Rich Doyle and Belle…"

"If you'll remember, I said that he never did anything against her; that he didn't care about her. That was completely and entirely true, in that he never, in fact, met her. I told you that what he did, he did against _me_. You chose to interpret that a certain way."

"You bloody well _knew_ how I was interpreting it and you did _nothing_ to stop me. You bloody well _knew_, because I bloody well _told_ you. I cried over him! I came to you, crying, because I thought he was a terrible person and I thought you were worth something. You _bastard_."

He merely chuckled. "Well, I've been called worse, dearie."

"Then it's true about his sister, too? You probably told her the very carefully worded _truth_, and she probably took it however she wanted. Don't you have enough money, enough power? Why did you do it to her? Was it out of revenge? But what did Rich ever _really_ do to you, to make you hate him? Because I can tell that you do hate him…but why?"

"Your never ending capacity for questions continues to amaze me."

"That's not an answer. You lied to me; now I deserve to know the truth."

"You deserve _nothing_." For the first time, his voice held something besides placid amusement. His eyes flashed. "You took it upon yourself to invade my privacy, to uncover secrets I had no desire to tell you, and to force me to tell you intimate personal details."

"You're saying I deserved what I got."

"In so many words."

"No one deserves to be lied to. Especially not by someone they…" She paused and bit her lip.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Especially not by a friend," she finished. "Now that, you did say. You said you'd 'like to consider yourself my friend.' Was _that_ a lie? Was _everything_ you ever said a lie?"

He stood now, and began to make his way into the shop. "I told you that I very rarely care for people as people, but only as potential assets; commodities, if you will. Friendship is simply the coin to purchase the commodity."

"Then it was a lie. If friendship is a means to an end, it's not a friendship."

"It wasn't a lie. It was a difference of definition."

"You know what friendship means to me, which makes it equivocation, which is _still_ lying. Why? What was the point of it all?"

"If I didn't, there was no way to prevent you from being together. You have as good as admitted that if you could believe him to be a good person, you would be in love with him. That look on your face now is precisely what I wished to avoid."

"But…what? Why would you want to keep me from…from liking him? You don't…I mean you don't…" She stared at him. "You can't possibly…you don't _like_ me, do you? I mean, you said…you said you wanted me to be her. Did you lie to me so that someone who looks like _her_ would want to be with _you_?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Do_ you…like me?

"You mean am I physically or emotionally attracted to you?" he asked, with exaggerated care.

"Yeah."

"Of course."

"You mean…because I'm like her, right?"

"Partly, yes."

"So, what you did…was it out of attraction to _me_ or hatred for _him_?"

"Both."

"Why do you hate him?"

"Ah…that, I don't have to tell you."

"_Damn_ you! What did he _really_ do to you?"

"I'm a sort of monster in your eyes, aren't I? Worse even than you thought _he_ was. I savagely assaulted a man over a cup. I lied to someone I professed friendship for. I've done more terrible things than that; would you like to hear about them? I've bought and sold children. I've corrupted innocents. I've cheated and lied to those who thought themselves closest to me. Belle? Belle didn't leave because of rumours or suspicions; she left because I threw her out. She was getting too close, asking _too many questions,_ so I fired her without a reference. She had to go home to her father, who beat her and locked her in her room. She did commit suicide; that part was the truth. She threw herself out of a window. But it wasn't your friend's fault; it was _mine_!" He gripped his cane. He wasn't looking at her anymore; he stared at something only he could see, some image in his head that had haunted him for years.

She looked at him for a long time. Somehow, it seemed to her that he had never really admitted that before.

"I know that you really did love her," she said finally. "That part was true, too."

"We're done here."

"Not until you tell me about Rich."

"Why is it so important to you? You know the truth and you have your knight in shining white armour, who's never done a thing wrong in his life. What does it matter?"

"It matters because screw what you think of me, I still care about you. I don't want to believe that you would be pointlessly cruel. I don't _want_ to take the knight in shining armour's word against yours. You understood me; I want to understand you, too."

"Believe me, dearie, you don't want to understand me."

"Let _me_ decide what I want."

"And let _me_ decide how much of my personal information I choose to divulge. Then I believe we'll get on quite splendidly."

"So that's it, then? You're going to do to me what you did to Belle? You're going to let me walk away, believing all the worst. Maybe _I_ don't deserve to know, Mr Gold, but have you considered that you deserve to tell me?"

He smiled, slowly at first, but then his face became a bright grin and he chuckled, softly. "You've got spirit, Austen. Perhaps I will tell you someday, but not yet. Will you be content with that?"

"But…there _is_ an explanation for everything? There _is_ a reason? Please. If I could just know that. If I could know you had a reason for everything."

"Yes, of course I had a reason. Perhaps it wasn't much of one from your perspective, but I _had_ a reason; I'm not in the habit of doing things senselessly."

"Then I guess I'll have to be content with that. You should go; you said you had a meeting."

"You still want to work for me, dearie?" he enquired, surprised.

"What, you think I'm going to give up a well-paying job because my employer is a world-class jerk? If you're not back by eight, I'll close up."


	30. Chapter 30: The Problem with Remembering

**Author's Note: Some T-ish stuff in this chapter; nothing terribly explicit. Also, the drafts will be pretty rough from here on out, so I would appreciate suggestions. ^_^ Thanks for reading!**

* * *

From the moment the blue sedan caught her eye through the window, she watched it. She watched it circle the block once and finally find a parking space. She watched it pull into the parking space, stop, and rest. She watched the driver get out, put his keys in his pocket, and stride across the street. She watched him bang open the door.

She watched his reaction when he stepped in and saw her.

"How can I help you, Mr Doyle?" she enquired. She smiled and leaned her elbows on the counter. "Looking for Mr Gold? He's not here just now, but I don't think he'll be long."

"Austen," he said. "I haven't seen you in a few days."

"No, I guess you haven't. Which is weird, because we've been seeing each other _everywhere_ for like a month. Well, here I am. Did you want to give Mr Gold a message, or…or did you come in to see me?"

"I came to speak to Mr Gold, actually. I didn't expect to see you here at all."

"Well, it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise; I work here."

"I see." He frowned.

"Disappointed to see me?"

"Frankly…well, I suppose you're right; I shouldn't be surprised. It would be more logical, of course, for you to be disappointed to see me."

"I'm…not."

"Not disappointed?"

"No. I looked for you over the past few days. I expected you to come popping up from behind the bushes or something, but you never did. I'm pretty glad to see you, really; I think it means some balance in the universe has been restored."

"Even if the price of this equilibrium is the company of a man you hate?"

"I don't hate you, Rich…not anymore, anyway."

"Then you believed me?" His eyes widened and he took a step toward her. "If you know I told the truth, then why are you…?"

"Why am I…what?"

"Why are you still _here_? Working for him?"

She laughed. She could see the cogs in his brain fizzing and whirring madly, trying to make sense of this, trying to _logic_ it out. _If she doesn't hate me, that means she believes me; if she believes me, that means she knows what he is; if she hated me for what she thought I'd done, how much more should she hate him now if she believes me about what_ he_ did? Logically, she shouldn't be here; logically…_

"All right, don't kill yourself. Look, I don't have to like the people I work for. But I _am_ trying to save money, and this job pays really well. You said yourself, for the sake of only my sister I was willing to put up with you; for my own sake, doesn't it make sense for me to put up with so much more?"

His brain stopped whirring and settled down into a contented purr of logic. _Of course, it all made sense_, she could see him thinking.

"If you were interested," he said slowly, "I could arrange for you to…"

"Oh, no, please." She put up her hands. "I have no interest in working with you. It's so much better to work for a man you couldn't _possibly_ fall in…I mean, um." She blushed. "I mean, that's okay. I like my job. I mean, I spend all my time reading and telling people that Mr Gold isn't in right now, and I get well above minimum wage for it."

"I don't want you to get hurt again," he said. "There are some things you can't protect yourself from with Mace." The look in his eyes—that otherworldly look—sent her heart up into her throat. For a second, she couldn't breathe properly. He worried about her. He wanted to protect her.

"Do you…" Appalled at the noise coming from the mouth, she cleared her throat and tried again. "What are you doing tonight?" she asked. "Granny's, we've been to, and that gourmet place…bad idea. What about if you…my sister's working the night shift tonight. Why don't you come over at like eight and I'll make you dinner?" She was babbling; she knew she was babbling. Somehow, the concerned line between his eyebrows and the way the light made his eyes glisten sent shivers all over her body. Trying to eliminate the tingling in the tips of her fingers, words didn't really come as a top priority.

He stared at her. "Dinner?"

"Yeah. I'm…actually, I'm a terrible cook. My mother never taught me. But I can make breakfast. Do you ever eat breakfast for dinner? We used to do that on Saturdays, because we none of us ever got up early enough for breakfast at breakfast time." The little smile that touched his lips at this rendered her absolutely incapable of further speech. She'd never reacted like this before. Apparently, being protected turned her on.

"That sounds…" Suddenly, he shook his head and took a step back. "I'm so sorry, I don't think I can."

"Why not?"

"I'm…we shouldn't."

He wanted to—the intensity of his desire burned in his eyes. She reached out her hand tentatively and rested it on his and tried to read the rest of his expression—why was he holding back? Was he still angry?

"I know I've treated you like crap," she said. "And I'm truly, truly sorry. I should have listened to you; I should have gotten your side of the story first. You deserved…you _deserve_ so much more than I gave you."

"You're not the one who needs forgiveness," he said, caressing her hand almost as if he didn't realise he did it. "And I can only ask yours for the very least of my sins."

She bent her head over their locked fingers and kissed his hand.

"Why are you suddenly interested in dinner?" he asked, pulling away. "You told me only a few days ago that you hated me. I didn't expect…"

"I lied, Rich. I wanted to hate you because of the things I thought you'd done. I tried really hard to hate you. I convinced myself that I hated you. But I couldn't…I couldn't really hate you. I don't know what it is about you. It's everything. You're…you're perfect." Dear God, had she just said that? She wanted to swallow her tongue. Talk about throwing oneself at someone. She felt her face crimsoning.

"I'm far from perfect."

"No, of course. I know that. I know you're not perfect. And there are things about you that piss me off. When I say you're _perfect_, I don't mean you're a man without fault. I mean that _I_…that when I'm with you…well, you know."

He did know. That was what he'd been trying to tell her that night, and with the kiss and everything. She realised that now. Neither one on their own was perfect, or anything like, but both of them together…were.

"Please, give me—this—us—another chance. Come over tonight. Will you?"

He nodded.

* * *

When she opened the door, a sort of anticipation and interest surged through him. It took him a second to remember what it was.

_She wanted him to come in. If he came to her chamber when she was angry or sick or tired, she would open the door and come out. But if she opened the door and stood aside, it meant she accepted him, she wanted him. Almost every night, for two years, the way the door opened meant everything._

Tonight, she invited him inside.

_It doesn't mean what it used to, of course,_ he reminded himself as he took off his jacket. _Nothing's going to happen. You promised yourself that._

She'd brushed her hair just right that evening: mostly pulled back, but three or four curls escaping at the nape of her neck and on her cheek. She didn't wear the blue dress; she wore white. She looked like a bride. His beautiful bride.

_Stop it_.

He liked the little living room she showed him into. It was small a bit untidy, but not dirty. In fact, it looked just like her rooms used to look: books and papers everywhere and other little personal items lying where they'd doubtless fallen after being used. Those slippers on the floor even looked like her house slippers. And that necklace on the side table…

He stopped and stared at it. No, there could be no mistake. It was the same.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, accidentally interrupting her light small talk.

"What?"

"That necklace. Where did you get it?"

Austen turned, saw where he was pointing, and blushed. "Oh. That. I…it was a present."

"From whom?" Then he recollected his manners. "Sorry. It looks just like something I saw many years ago."

"It's awfully pretty, isn't it?" she said, picking it up, and letting the light play through it. "I love amethysts."

The purple lights on her face brought an involuntary smile to his lips; it reminded him of when he'd first given it to her—how she'd held it up and admired the reflections dancing on the wall—and of how it used to send purple shadows over her neck and shoulders when she fastened it on. The sparkle of the gems almost matched the lights in her eyes and the dazzle of her smile. "I know," he said.

She glanced up. "How do you know?"

_Stupid, stupid. She always made him say and do things he could never have said and done if her brilliant eyes hadn't been trained on his face. How could he possibly know?_

"Well…you appear to like that necklace very much," he said.

"I do, but…you know, I think I should give it back to him."

Rich started violently. _Him_.

_Mr Gold._

She realised her mistake almost as soon as the words escaped her lips, and she dropped the necklace on the floor to cover her mouth with her hands. _Of course, Mr Gold gave it to her; what had he thought? Everything from that world had ended up in Mr Gold's shop. Of course he would have given it to her; he knew everything about her—he probably_ wanted _him to find out this way, too, that his gift, his offering born of love, had been distorted and used to manipulate her…_

He took a deep breath, and knelt to pick up the trinket. "Oh," he said. The delicate silver chain had twisted a little, and one of the pearls had fallen off. "It's a little damaged," he said, standing up again, "but reparable. I think Marco occasionally does some work with jewellery; I tend to think of him as a carpenter, but he does quite fine craftsmanship really, when he chooses. My sister broke the catch of her bracelet once, and he was able to repair it in a matter of minutes."

"Please don't; you don't have to."

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't have to try and cover this up, or pretend you're not hurt. It was a present from Mr Gold."

"Yes, I know. I'm not _hurt_, Austen. I'm a bit angry, but not at you. You should only return it if you feel that that's appropriate; it's a beautiful necklace, and it…it suits you exactly." He couldn't keep the little choke from invading his sentence. _Every pearl, every strand, I suited to her, so that it would complement her perfectly._ I _made it suit her, and he stole it from me_.

She met his gaze; her eyes bright with tears. When she didn't say anything, he straightened the chain a little and looped it around her neck with a practiced motion, careful not to let his fingers brush her neck as he fastened it. If he touched that skin, he couldn't be responsible for what happened, and he had to stay in control this evening. Nothing was going to happen.

"Looks great," he said. "Now, what's the plan?" he enquired. "You tend to like to wing it, but was there a basic idea for an order of events?""

She brushed a curl out of her face with a well-remembered gesture. "Well, dinner is pretty much ready whenever we are. It's mostly frying stuff, and I have the pancakes all mixed up and everything. We could eat first and then…go for a walk, if you want. It's nice out tonight; it's not raining anymore. Or what about a movie?"

"That sounds fine," he said. "Either."

Halfway through dinner, however, the option of a movie was suddenly removed when the lights went out with a bang.

They both stood up. "What happened?" exclaimed Austen.

"I don't know. Maybe you blew a fuse—where's your electrical panel?" he asked.

He heard Austen pushing back her chair and coming around to him. "It's down in the basement. This way. I don't even know how to work it, as many times as Annabel has tried to show me. God, I can't see a thing."

Rich tried to follow her voice. He made it all the way to some kind of door, and then crashed against something and heard the sound of an object hitting the floor and smashing.

"Damn. What was that?"

"I don't know. Where are you? Oh, it was probably just that mug I keep on the stool. You have shoes on, right? Then don't worry about it. Here." Without warning, she took his hand. "Follow where I go; I know my way pretty well."

By trying to concentrate on not tripping, he managed to ignore the pressure of her cold hand, stop his heart from racing, and keep all his blood where it should be. He'd promised himself nothing would happen; should being very alone with her in a very dark house change that promise? No. He wouldn't try anything. As soon as they found some kind of light, they would go back and finish dinner, and then he would thank her and leave. She would never again have cause to berate him for ungentlemanly behaviour.

_But she was his wife…_

_She used to love the dark. He loved it for her sake, and because with darkness came the only time he could really be free with her._

_Stop it_.

The electrical panel didn't help; obviously the problem came from the source. They stumbled back to the kitchen where his cell phone was, called the power company, and found that a lot of people in the area were experiencing power problems, that they were checking into it, and that it wouldn't be very long.

Somehow through all of this Austen managed to keep hold of his hand.

"Well, it looks like we have a couple of options," he said after he hung up. "The Miners Day festival at the convent is tonight; we could go there, where there will be people, and light, and most likely heat. We could just go for a walk, and avoid people and light and heat. I recommend we finish our supper before it gets cold, but after that…"

"I agree. Oh, and speaking of Miners Day, I still have a candle from last year around here somewhere. What about a romantic candlelit dinner?"

"I never understood why candlelight was considered romantic," he said, trying to still his pounding heart.

"It's because it's dimmer than electric light, and for some reason not being able to see your dinner partner is a turn-on," she said authoritatively. "Maybe the concept was invented by matchmakers or mothers who wanted their daughters to marry ugly, rich men."

He smiled; he could well see Mrs Bennet coming up with something like that.

She finally let go of his hand to rummage in a drawer. "Here's the candle, I think. And I'm pretty sure this is a matchbook." Apparently it at least functioned as one, because she managed to produce flame and light.

_He'd forgotten what she looked like in candlelight._

He thought it wouldn't be as easy to talk to her now as it had been when she was just Austen and he was just Rich. But she made it easy. They fell into their old pattern—the conversation started out with a comparison of Nikola Tessla and Thomas Edison, brought on by the electrical problems. That easily segued into a discussion about commercialism, and a debate on utilitarianism, until he forgot the complication of their separate identities and memories and remembered only the glow of her eyes, and saw only the way the orange light shone on her throat and cast deep shadows in the hollows of her face, and knew only the brilliance of her mind sparring with him in a fascinating, resplendent, chaotic dance.

It took hours for him to notice that dinner was over…had been for a long time. They'd eaten all the bacon and eggs, and they couldn't fry the little bit of remaining pancake batter anyway until the electricity came back on.

This realisation sent him springing to his feet. The candle had almost burned down. Dear God, what time _was_ it? He'd promised himself he would thank her politely, and then leave. There was still time to save everything if he left right away.

"Whoa, hey, what's wrong?" she asked. He'd stood up so fast that his chair crashed to the ground.

"It's…it's late. It's…" He held his watch up to the flickering candle. "It's two in the morning! We've been here six hours!"

"That shouldn't surprise you! We've talked for longer."

"Well, yes, but it's late. I have an early morning appointment. I'm sorry. It's been wonderful. I'll help you clean up, of course."

She began to clear the table, and he brushed the crumbs off into the trash. She put the dishes in the sink and rinsed them; he put away the food, wiped the table, and swept the floor, including the shards of the mug he had broken.

"I would offer you coffee, but I'm afraid the coffee maker's out of commission," she said.

"I'm afraid I would have to decline anyway. I need to go now."

"Well, let me show you out. Otherwise you'll trip over something else, and I have a whole collection of little china figurines that I'd hate to see damaged." She slipped her hand into his again and led him through to the living room.

"Thank you for dinner, Austen. Or breakfast."

"I…thought…"

"Sorry?" He began to feel for his coat on the row of hooks by the door, but then a gentle tug at his hand made him look at her.

"I thought you would stay," she said. He couldn't see her expression in the darkness.

"Stay? What do you mean?"

"I thought you would stay. I wanted you to stay."

He didn't understand, until she moved a little and the shaft of moonlight slanting through the window lit her dark eyes.

_They stood at the threshold of her chamber. He kissed her and bid her goodnight. As he started to turn away, she reached out quickly and put her hand on his arm._

_"Stay with me tonight, darling."_

_"It's late. I have a meeting before breakfast. I'll come tomorrow."_

_"Please stay. You've been gone so many nights." A fire kindled in his throbbing heart; she wanted him. She needed his hands and his lips. This was one of the best of the tangled collection of feelings called love—the feeling of being wanted._

"Please stay."

For a minute, neither of them moved.

Then he seized her and crushed his mouth against hers. At that moment, the candle in the next room went out, leaving them in almost total darkness—she tumbled backward over the edge of a sofa and he was on top of her, their feet entwined, her hands in his hair.

It took him only seconds to remember everything that his wife liked—bites on her neck and kisses on her shoulders and pressure on her back. Simple things. The way she stretched and wriggled under his practiced touch delighted him, as did the murmurs that came from the back of her throat, and for a few moments it seemed as though she remembered too; she clutched at him and dug her nails into his shoulders in exactly the right way.

_My darling, my wife, my lover, my Elizabeth._

And with that memory, smashed up against her, there emerged from his racing heart the well-known, horrible surge of angry triumph.

* * *

Austen had never been so bewildered and frightened and happy in all her life. No books or Talks or PG-13 movies or anything had prepared her for the rush of anticipation mixed with terror that flooded her when she realised that he wanted what she wanted, and was going to give it to her. A small part of her wondered why the hell she had thought this would be a good idea. She'd never even been kissed until these past couple of months. She wasn't ready. Rich would want and expect all kinds of things, and she didn't have nearly enough confidence in her own instinct to think she could do it right on the first try. Another part of her thought, _Well, he seems to know what he's doing, _and a very small but persistent voice added, _I wonder how? _The rest of her didn't think anything at all, because he was hot and forceful and had those strong hands.

All of her was surprised when, suddenly, he rolled off the couch and got to his feet.

"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting up. He stood full in the shaft of moonlight, and she could see his face, looking haggard. "What are you doing?"

"I can't do this to you."

"Do _what_ to me?" Whatever it was, she was fairly certain she wanted him to go on doing it. He tasted saltier and smelled better even than she remembered.

"I'm sorry. I have to go."

"You…don't want me," she said.

And his face constricted; his mouth turned down, his eyebrows became thunderous, his nostrils flared. Nothing could have been plainer—revulsion. Disgust. Hatred. He turned away, picked up his coat, and left.

She felt as though she had been slapped.


End file.
